


and everyone is waiting, waiting for you

by notavodkashot



Series: words are futile devices [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, M/M, Or the sequel, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Random shenanigans that happen during or around the main fic, Spoilers for the main fics, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 185
Words: 77,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: A collection of short fics from my prompt drives, all set withinthe sun is outcontinuity.





	1. year xvii | Dad!Nyx and Dad!Cor's reaction to when Prompto starts dating one of the bros? Maybe Gladio?

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm putting all my short fics in one place. I'm including the prompt and the year each takes place in. 
> 
> These are canon to the main fic and probably don't make sense if you haven't read that one.

* * *

_year xvii | Dad!Nyx and Dad!Cor's reaction to when Prompto starts dating one of the bros? Maybe Gladio?_

* * *

 

Cor was laughing at him.

Not just with his eyes either; he was full blown cackling, face buried in his hands and shoulders heaving with mirth. Nyx would usually take the time to appreciate such a rare sight - perhaps even crack a joke about omens about the end of the world coming - but not when  _he_ was the butt of the joke.

“It’s not funny,” he scoffed, arms folded over his chest as he tried his best to loom.

“It is,” Cor snorted, looking at him through his fingers, before cackling some more. “Actually.”

A terrible thought occurred to him. He scowled thunderously.

“You  _knew_ about this,” he snarled. “Cor!”

Cor took another minute to get his composure back, before he answered.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, in a tone that clearly implied he doubted it would be the case, “he actually asked permission before he asked Prom out?”

Nyx looked murderous.

“And he asked  _you_?”

Cor shrugged.

“I’ll give you he doesn’t always think before he talks,” Cor replied, one eyebrow arched, before he frowned slightly. “Or acts, for that matter. But still. Gladio’s not a complete idiot.” He snorted. “He went to the one of us who’s actually capable of reason.”

“You said  _yes_ ,” Nyx accused, glaring.

“Prompto’s seventeen,” Cor pointed out, smirking. “Do you remember what  _you_ were up to, when you were seventeen?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Nyx snarled, face flushed. “Exactly my point!”

“I told Gladio to use a fucking rubber,” Cor deadpanned, shrugging. Nyx spluttered gloriously. “Also, that no one’ll find the body if he breaks the kid’s heart.” 

“Well,” Nyx groused darkly, “that’s something, at least.”

 


	2. year xx | "Do a flip!"

* * *

_year xx | "Do a flip!"_

* * *

 

“Seriously?” Noctis asked, eyes wide and expression open for once.

“Absolutely,” Biggs said gravely, expression perfectly serious. “We’re trained professionals, your highness.”

“The best there is, from Gralea to Galhad,” Wedge added, nodding solemnly.

“Do a flip, then,” Noctis said challengingly, one eyebrow arched.

“Disregard that order,” Aranea snarled, slamming the heel of her hand into Gladio’s jaw as she shot up despite his and Ignis’ best attempts to keep her lying back. “On the pain of death, you idiots!” She added fiercely, before she gurgled and slumped somewhat, poison getting to her again.

Ignis got a solid boot to the face for his attempts to help.

“Boss’ right, sadly,” Biggs said sagely, comfortably ignoring the fact that, in the background, they could hear Prompto making tiny, awkward, pacifying noises, while Aranea insisted she was  _fine, damn you all. Fine_.

“Old girl just ain’t built to do spins,” Wedge agreed, patting the console of their stolen dropship affectionately.

“Huh,” Noctis replied, sighing a little.

“Now barrel rolls, though,” Biggs added, brightening up, about the same time Aranea managed to summon her lance.

“Why barrel rolls are an entirely different beast,” Wedge grinned, as in the hold, pandemonium happened.

 

 


	3. year xix | prompto doing something badass/dangerous while off with noct and the bros and his dad's finding out (and not sure if they should be proud or horrified)

* * *

_year xix | prompto doing something badass/dangerous while off with noct and the bros and his dad's finding out (and not sure if they should be proud or horrified)_

* * *

 

“Don’t even look at me,” Cor deadpanned, raising a hand to point a finger at Nyx’s purpling face, “ _you_ bought him the damn thing.”

“ _You_ said it was a good idea!” Nyx snarled, throwing his arms up in the air.

“And you know that if you want actual sensible advice instead of blind validation, you should ask  _Monica_ about it.”

Nyx made a small frustrated noise in the back of his throat as they stared at the TV and the continued news coverage of the street race between the - suspected stolen - Crown Prince’s car versus an unknown black motorcycle in the brand new, still unopened highway the King was slanted to open to traffic in the morning.

“We are so dead,” Nyx muttered.

“It could be worse,” Cor mused, wincing as the bike went nearly perpendicular in a turn, not slowing in the slightest. When Nyx merely glared at him, he shrugged. “At least Ravus and Lunafreya are not with them.”

Nyx took a moment to contemplate that - frighteningly likely - scenario and shuddered.

“I’m going to ground him until he’s  _forty_.”


	4. year ix | "Hello, we are aliens from outer space, here to take you over. Sorry about that."

* * *

_year ix | "Hello, we are aliens from outer space, here to take you over. Sorry about that."_

* * *

 

Over the years, Cor had gotten used to walking home and finding it invaded by children. It was to be expected, of course, Prompto made friends about as easily as he smiled, and Nyx had a certified problem saying no to him. (Cor pretended he didn’t as well, since he’d been smart enough, early on, to make sure Prompto didn’t feel the need to ask him much of anything.) He personally preferred when Pelna’s boys were over, if nothing because they liked sensible, quiet things like stamp collecting and watching videos about wild life outside the wall. Most of Prompto’s school friends were acceptable, as well. They tended to cower nicely in his presence and often all he had to do was sit in a corner with a good book, and the peace would maintain itself on its own.

But then there were Clarus’ children, and the Prince, and those were the days that Cor unlocked the cabinet in his study and drank until he reminded himself he actually loved his friends too much to murder them for siccing their spawn on him.

He was used to a great deal of things, at this point in his life.

He was still mildly taken aback when he found Ignis and Gladio tied up in the foyer. Gladio looked bewildered about it, while Ignis seemed two seconds from having a meltdown of sheer outrage.

Prompto, Noctis and Iris chose that moment to come running down the corridor. Well, to be precise, Noctis came crashing through, with what Cor assumed was Prompto and Iris tackling him into the ground with a shriek. He assumed, because that sure was a heck of a lot of blue paint and, he wasn’t entire sure but it seemed likely, the living room curtains.

“Hi, Cor,” Prompto said brightly, smiling wide, tooth gap and all.

Cor arched an eyebrow as Gladio and Ignis went deadly still, only then noticing his presence.

Iris pointed a finger gun at him, face fierce.

“Hello!” She bellowed, “we’re aliens from outer space, here to take you over!”

Prompto grinned.

“Sorry about that.”


	5. year vii | Cor and Nyx sitting somewhere public very close together. (Definitely not cuddling XD) The Kingsglaive/Crownsguard are all ??????

* * *

_year vii | Cor and Nyx sitting somewhere public very close together. (Definitely not cuddling XD) The Kingsglaive/Crownsguard are all ??????_

* * *

 

Nyx and Cor shared a long, awkward look.

“New batch of rookies,” Nyx explained after a moment, grinning wryly as he patted his bloodied side, where he’d gotten skewered by a dagger. “But hey, at least it wasn’t puke this time around.”

Cor snorted.

“Bank robbery during lunch break,” he replied, shrugging his blooded shoulder with a small wince. “Surprisingly high caliber, for within the wall.”

Nyx went to sit next to him on the bench.

“So much for the bullet proof legend, huh,” he said, and ducked as Cor reached out to smack him for the joke. “Shit. Monica and Crowe are gonna tan our asses, aren’t they.”

Cor opened his mouth, considered, and then closed with with the smallest wince.

“That’s a distinct possibility, yes,” he murmured, shoulders slumping just enough they were brushing Nyx’s.

“Ah well,” Nyx sighed, “if worse comes to worst, we could totally fuck off to Galdin under the pretense of medical leave. Prom would love the change of scenery.”

“…that’s not an entirely stupid idea,” Cor admitted after a moment.

“Well, you know,” Nyx replied sarcastically, “I try my best for you.”

When Monica and Crowe arrived to assess what new stupid way their respective commanding officers had found to get themselves nearly killed, they came upon a very tense scene outside the infirmary: a crowd of Kingsglaive and Crownsguard soldiers milling about, peeking through the door and sporadically breaking out into hissing rows about whatever was going on inside.

“…I’m going to kill them,” Crowe deadpanned, closing her eyes and bracing for the impending migraine already twitching into existence behind her left eye.

“…and give them the easy way out?” Monica asked, one eyebrow arched sardonically. “I’m disappointed in you, Crowe, you’re going soft on me.”

They were not surprised - disappointed, yes, but not surprised - when the latest rumor to hit the bars in the Citadel’s periphery was all about Cor and Nyx’s battle to the death. The last version Crowe heard, before she gave up pretenses and started punching people, involved the King himself stepping in to mediate between them.


	6. year xiii | How about a fussy child Prom with Cor?

* * *

_year xiii | How about a fussy child Prom with Cor?_

* * *

 

“But I don’t  _wanna_ …” Prompto whined in his best, most pathetic voice, going limp and boneless until only Cor’s grip on the back of his shirt kept him upright.

“Don’t care,” Cor deadpanned, impressed by the display, but not enough to let the boy off the hook. “You’re going anyway.”

“But–”

“Shut up, Prompto,” Cor said quietly, voice even. Prompto pursed his lips and remained a free-shaped liquid in Cor’s grasp. Cor sighed. “Fine.”

But rather than let him go, as Prompto had hoped, he set out walking at a brisk pace out of his office. Were Prompto the least bit  _less_ stubborn, he would have scrambled to keep his footing and started walking. But alas, Prompto was having a decidedly  _Ulric_ tantrum, so he remained limp and loose-limbed, and turned on Cor’s grip only enough that he was dragging his heels, his arms folded stubbornly over his chest.

So they went, across several corridors across the Citadel, Cor strolling at his usual pace, dragging along a very stubborn, sulking child, all the way to Nyx’s office.

“Your son,” Cor said dryly, presenting Nyx with the stubborn boy, raising him a foot off the floor by the back of his shirt.

Prompto sulked with all his might.

“Thank you, Marshal,” Nyx said, trying his best not to laugh. “You know he will drop you, Prom. Stop being stupid.”

There was a moment of terse silence, and Prompto sighed, unfolding his arms and catching himself on his feet as Cor let go of him.

“Now go on and tell him why Clarus has an ulcer now,” Cor encouraged after a moment of solemn silence.

Nyx arched an eyebrow, leaning forward on his desk. Prompto sighed dramatically.

“Now don’t be mad, Dad,” he began, like all his best worst confessions did. “The thing is…”


	7. year xx | a "hold my beer but if you tell anyone they won't believe you" moment

* * *

 

_year xx | a "hold my beer but if you tell anyone they won't believe you" moment_

* * *

 

“…Ravus,” Prompto said after a moment, staring at the dusk-pained sky of Leide. “C’mon.”

“Of course,” Ravus replied, collecting himself. “Once the signal reconnects, we shall let them know-”

“The signals take about forty hours to reconnect out here,” Prompto pointed out, shrugging. “We don’t have forty hours. C’mon.” He walked over to his bike and summoned two helmets. “Just. Hold on tight, okay?”

Ravus stared.

“It’s nearly night,” Ravus pointed out, frowning, even if he took the helmet. “You cannot drive at night.”

“A  _car_ ,” Prompto pointed out, sliding the helmet on. “You can’t drive a car at night, ‘cause daemons pop up in the middle of the road all the time, and you don’t really have space to maneuver. Plus the Regalia is too slow for it anyway.”

“The  _Regalia_ is too slow,” Ravus repeated, frowning.

“Put on the helmet, climb on and hold on tight,” Prompto insisted, turning on the engine. “And if anybody asks, we were never here, and we never did this.” He paused. “No, seriously,  _no one must ever know_ , okay? Or I will never see the light of day again, so long as my Dad still lives.”

“I hardly think-”

“Ravus,” Prompto insisted, voice sharp. “Shut up.”

Ravus pursed his lips, irritated, then reluctantly slid the helmet on. He climbed gingerly into the seat and spluttered when Prompto adjusted his arms around his waist.

“Hold on,” he insisted, and then dropped the visor of his helmet. “Okay.”

Then he gassed it - Ravus wasn’t entirely sure what was the proper term for it, when it came to motorcycles, but if it had been the pedal of a car, it would have been pressed to bottom - and Ravus made a sound that he would sooner die than admit was a shriek when they went from zero to a hundred in no time flat. 

Lunafreya did not appreciate the shit Ravus did for the sake of her stupid Chosen King, Ravus decided, about the same time he found out there was actually a speed at which he could be drowning in nausea, but his body refused to hurl. Which he supposed was a good thing. Probably.

He shrieked again - no, not shrieking, he was Ravus Nox Fleuret, he did not  _shriek_ like a very small child, even if they were going several times the speed limit, at night, in a highway full of daemons - when the Iron Giants started to pop up, and Prompto refused to slow down, zigzagging his way around them close enough that Ravus felt their swords whistling past his back.

“You look ill, brother,” Lunafreya said worriedly, the next afternoon when they made their way to Lestallum. “Did lunch not sit well with you?”

Prompto gave him a very pointed look, though Ravus thought it was rather meaningless. Who would believe him? The insolent  _brat_ was gushing about photographs of  _chocobos_ , of all things.

“I do not wish to discuss it,” Ravus said shortly, resisting the urge to snarl, because Lunafreya was not at fault for the dismal company her dearly betrothed kept.

Were he a lesser man, he would go get drunk. He was not, so he refused to acknowledge that the temptation was even there, and instead went to trade acid witticisms with the Prince’s Adviser until he felt better.


	8. year xix | Clarus's wife gives Luna tips on being a badass while maintaining decorum?

* * *

 

_year xix | Clarus's wife gives Luna tips on being a badass while maintaining decorum?_

* * *

 

“Ask him about his wife,” Anemone whispered behind her fan, lips barely moving. “She left him last month and he’s running out of excuses to cover up the scandal.”

Luna’s smile stayed in place, her expression gracious and kind, despite the rather unsavory turn the conversation had taken, when Lord Pravus began his tactless inquiries about her opinion of a free, independent Tenebrae.

“They’re dogs fighting for a bone, my dear, they will tear you apart just for the privilege of saying they were the ones who did so,” Anemone went on, still quiet, still barely above a whisper. “You must on occasion show teeth, that they may remember it’s by your grace and mercy they still live.”

Luna’s lips tightened slightly, not quite in agreement, but then Lord Pravus made a rather disagreeable comment about the differences between marrying a King and marrying an Emperor, and Luna’s fingers twitched.

“True enough,” she found herself saying, gracious and polite as she knew best to be, “I admire your wisdom in such matters, Lord Pravus. Lady Pravus is so lucky to have found such a fortuitous match in you, my Lord. I would offer my congratulations to her, even if your nuptials are long past. Is she in attendance with us tonight?”

Anemone smiled at her, a vicious, sharp, beautiful smile, as Luna watched, mesmerized, as he fell apart at her feet.


	9. year vi | Prompto just saw Aranea do the dragoon leap and has decided it's the next coolest thing after cactaurs, and he is absolutely going to learn to do it.

* * *

 

_year vi | Prompto just saw Aranea do the dragoon leap and has decided it's the next coolest thing after cactaurs, and he is absolutely going to learn to do it. Nyx is both sick of getting jumped on from unexpected places and terrified Prompto's going to crack his head. Aranea's having a great time proposing new ambushing spots._

* * *

 

Prompto squirmed like an eel in his arms as Nyx grunted and tried to turn him right side up before putting him down on the ground again. The little menace giggled like a fiend the whole time, completely ignoring the fact he’d just cleanly shaved ten years out of his father’s life expectancy with that stunt.

“I’ll get you next time!” He announced, and then scurried back upstairs with an unrepentant cackle.

“Ramuh grant me patience,” Nyx muttered flatly, staring at his disappearing back, before he turned to glare at the sole responsible party in this particular mess.

Aranea, who was not an idiot, was long gone. Nyx let out a slow breath and then stalked resolutely to the basement. He did not fling the door open dramatically, because he wasn’t that childish - the urge was there, nonetheless - and instead let himself into the room quietly, focusing all of his frustration on Cor.

Cor looked up from his backlog of reports, blinked at the sight of Nyx all but vibrating with frustration, and sighed very loudly.

“Fine,” he said, putting down the folder in his hands. “I’ll have a word with them.”

Because he was feeling magnanimous about the whole affair - even though it was pretty damn hilarious, in his opinion - he threw the keys of the liquor cabinet at Nyx, as he stood up.

“Leave something for me,” he said, lips twitching into a half smirk, “I have a feeling I will need it.”

Nyx snorted dryly and settled in one of the armchairs. He only regretted missing the moment when Cor experienced his personal nightmare in the flesh, if only because the dreaded Immortal of the Crownsguard actually swore loud enough for Nyx to hear him, all the way down in the basement.


	10. year vi | Regis watching a series of pranks unfold between his friends and his kid's friends via the resulting paperwork.

* * *

 

_year vi | Regis watching a series of pranks unfold between his friends and his kid's friends via the resulting paperwork._

 

* * *

Regrettable structural damage, read Cor’s report, in that dry, cutting tone of his that made Regis frown. He hadn’t thought much of it, at the time. Cor and structural damage, regrettable or not, were old friends by then.

Then a week later there was a note from Clarus, excusing himself from their usual meeting after lunch, due to an urgent investigation, nothing he should concern himself with. Regis felt an inkling of suspicion, almost like intuition, but he let it go.

Cor delivered another report, four days later, alluding again to the structural damage and quietly snarking at Clarus to keep his nose out of the Crownsguard, only in not so many words. Regis went back and hunted down the trail of reports, until he found about the chunk of wall that had fallen dangerously close to Clarus, and which started his own rabbit hole to find those responsible.

Clarus copied Regis in the email chain detailing the thorough proof that no sabotage was at hand and a passionate promise to not give up regardless. Cor replied snarking some more about wasting resources chasing Clarus’ paranoia.

Then there was the chair incident, where upon someone had very carefully sawed off the back legs of Clarus’ chair in the council room and very nearly caused a diplomatic incident in the aftermath.

Clarus wanted blood. Cor told him he would see to it, of course, and then copied a thorough report on moths and a polite suggestion that the council room be fumigated sometime soon.

They served Clarus spinach for lunch, the next Monday, cooked into the stew. He’d gone red in the face and swollen accordingly, but still not enough to be dangerous, as if the food had been carefully measured to achieve peak irritation, but no real harm.

“What did he do to you?” Regis asked Cor, eyebrows arched curiously as his friend stood in sullen silence before him.

“He knows what he did,” Cor said irritably, eyes dark.

The next day, Clarus opened the door to his office only for a bucket of neon green paint to fall right on his head.

“Oh,” Clarus said, when Regis made a not quite subtle inquiry in regards to Cor. “Oh, fuck.” Then he scowled thunderously. “Well, how the hell was I supposed to know that?” He snapped, looking quite fearsome despite the green all over his face.

“Know what?” Regis asked, though he had a feeling he knew exactly what this was about.

“About him and Ulric!” Clarus snapped, throwing his arms in the air.

Regis did not call him an idiot, because he loved him enough. He sat back with a sigh.

“What, exactly, did you say?”

Clarus told him.

“You’re doomed,” Regis said, sinking into his chair in despair.

The next morning, Clarus walked into his office to find Aranea peering curiously at the swords hanging from the walls, and he knew that Regis was right.


	11. year xx | Prom has (a) secret admirer(s)!

* * *

 

_year xx | Prom has (a) secret admirer(s)!_

* * *

 

It’s not a secret, in the strictest sense.

They know. They  _all_ know. It’s written all over his face in the weirdest, most awkward way possible. The way he looks at him, frowning like he’s trying to put together a puzzle together but hasn’t been given the courtesy of having all the pieces yet. The way the barbs seem disjointed and not quite pointed, for all they’re sharp. The frankly childish little outbursts, here and there, that seem little more than an attempt to get his attention.

It’s not a secret.

Not really.

But still, somehow, for all he’s decidedly not an idiot, Prompto is stupidly, ridiculously, endlessly unaware.

“How?” Noctis asks, at some point, watching the three act comedy playing out by the fire pit with his head in his hands.

“Beats me,” Gladio says, smirking at the show. “He wasn’t nearly as oblivious when we were dating,” he added, snickering as Prompto’s face fell into a scarily accurate deadpan expression that echoed Cor’s so painfully well it was uncanny.

They couldn’t hear what he said, but they winced anyway. Prompto was made of literal rainbows and sunshine… right up to when he wasn’t, and then it felt really stupid to forget who’d raised him.

“To be fair,” Ignis pointed out, lips twitching in amusement, “you’re not the most subtle creature in the world.”

Prompto stomped over to where they were sitting, completely missing the forlorn, pinched expression he left behind. He paused when he realized the peanut gallery was staring at him in varying degrees of amusement.

“…what?”


	12. year xv | the sun is out!siblings getting into punk rock stuff? Aranea totally looks the type but then you have sunshine boy (who I kinda headcanon to have sewn his own custom modifications)

* * *

_year xv | the sun is out!siblings getting into punk rock stuff? Aranea totally looks the type but then you have sunshine boy (who I kinda headcanon to have sewn his own custom modifications)_

* * *

 

Cor supposed, all things considered, that Aranea and Prompto bonding over something that wasn’t illegal, violent and didn’t have the potential to end up with severe collateral damage and/or grievous bodily harm… well, it was a good thing.

Probably.

“You don’t get to judge,” Nyx told him, watching their kids bicker amicably - as opposed to viciously - over the band line up. “They like actual music.”

Cor shrugged.

“ _I_  like music,” he muttered, though not with much conviction, as this was an argument well worn over the years.

“You like screaming,” Nyx deadpanned, “occasionally accompanied by what sounds like a guitar being mauled with a chainsaw. It’s been years and my ears are still ringing.”

Cor snorted.

“I did warn you that particular venue was likely to get rowdy,” he pointed out, and then reached out to pluck the ridiculous beer cup from Aranea’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Oh, c’mon,” she whined, glaring. “It’s not a music festival without booze, sex and drugs!”

Nyx smirked as Prompto spluttered a laugh.

“Yes,” Cor said, one eyebrow arched. “I’m well aware.”

That’s why we’re here, he didn’t add, but he didn’t need to. Aranea stuck her tongue out at him, when he took a sip of the beer and smiled benignly at her, over the rim.

“C’mon,” she said, grabbing Prompto’s wrist and tugging him along so hard he nearly lost his step. “I want a t-shirt.”

“I suppose it could be worse,” Nyx sighed, taking a swing of the beer when Cor offered. “Anemone says Iris just discovered boy bands last month. So.”

Cor took the beer back and took a deep drink, as a reply.

Punk was fine.

They could live with punk.


	13. year xx | "he gives Cor ulcers and Nyx headaches, and Prompto wants him to never ever stop"

* * *

 

_year xx | "he gives Cor ulcers and Nyx headaches, and Prompto wants him to never ever stop"_

* * *

 

“Prompto! Light of my life, how’s it going, babe? Come here often?”

Prompto gave Dino a wary look, completely unmoved by the effusive greeting or the equally effusive hug.

“What do you want, Dino?” Prompto asked, in the exasperated tones of someone who’d gone through this song and dance far too many times to count. He snorted. “Also please get your hands off my ass.”

“But I’ve missed you, babe,” Dino sighed dramatically as he stepped back, “you never call, you never write, you never send me pictures of your dick.” Somewhere behind him, Prompto heard Gladio choke on spit. Prompto ignored  him. If you took your eyes off Dino, you lost. By default. “Also I might need a favor.”

“Let me guess, you found a new source of ore.”

“This is why I like you, yeah? You’re so smart and generous and, did you change your hair, babe? You look dashing-”

“What’s guarding the ore?” Prompto asked, squinting. “It better not be a fucking Behemoth again, Dino. I swear to Ramuh, I will legitimately shoot you.”

“No, no, got the message, loud and clear, no behemoths,” Dino replied, waving his hands amicably. “This one’s got a bird, instead. You like birds, right, Prom? All fluffy and cute?”

“A bird,” Prompto repeated, unconvinced.

“Just like a chocobo!” Dino insisted. “Only, you know. Seventy million times bigger and with a beak full of teeth but. You know.”

Prompto groaned.

“Goodbye, Dino.”


	14. year xix | that one time Cor got blown up

* * *

_year xix | that one time Cor got blown up_

* * *

“What,” Nyx asked, grinning as he leaned back on his chair, “not up for it?”’

“That’s not what I said,” Cor muttered back, in that tell-tale annoyed tone of his that meant he had said exactly that. “Ah,” he added, in an entirely different tone, “shit.”

Nyx wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but then the line went dead around the same time an explosion rocked the Citadel all the way up to Nyx’s floor.

* * *

Clarus had gotten to Cor first, by the time Nyx managed to make his way down and see what had happened. It took Nyx a bit of circling about until he found Monica, pale and furious but in command, and she let him past the wall of Crownsguard soldiers and pointed sharply with her head in the direction Cor was.

He was alive, obviously, because he was Cor and even Nyx was starting to believe a little that the title was not just mockery. He was also bloodied and angry and hissing at Clarus in a tone Nyx knew meant he was shy of violence, and barely so.

“Cor,” Nyx said, as he approached them, “shut the fuck up and let them look at you.”

Clarus spluttered when all Nyx got for his trouble was a cautious, resigned nod, despite the fact he’d probably been trying to get that reaction for a while and failing miserably at it. Nyx shrugged at him and then offered a hand for Cor to take, which he took, and then Nyx was wading back across the rumble and the mess, back to where the first aid tent.

Clarus followed, clearly expecting Cor to run or stop or do anything other than hold onto Nyx’s hand and do as he was told. He followed up all the way to the ambulance, which shut its doors before him and the last thing he saw was Nyx sitting there, talking on his phone and Cor leaning against his side, letting the paramedics do as they willed with him.

Nyx smiled at him, just before the doors closed, and they sped away, sirens blaring.

* * *

“He’s… calm…” Clarus told Nyx, blinking as if that was an unexpected state of affairs.

Sitting on the bed, back against the headboard and Cor’s face buried against his thigh, Nyx stared at him.

“He’s high on painkillers and more asleep than anything else,” Nyx explained, fingers scratching the nape of Cor’s neck absently, over and over again. “I’m not sure that counts as calm, though. He’ll be pissed enough when he wakes up properly.”

“But he’s not fighting anyone,” Clarus said, looking somewhat put out by the fact. “Pretty sure he hasn’t bitten anyone, either.”

Nyx gave him an amused look. It might have been pitying, too.

“He knows damn well I’ll sit on him, if he starts being stupid,” Nyx deadpanned, and then rolled his eyes. “He’s not a child, Clarus. I mean, I know he likes to act like one, but he’s really not.”

Clarus looked like he wanted to argue the point, but the nurse making rounds walked in then, steps brisk and expression pinched, and summarily kicked Clarus out of the room.

* * *

“Oh, fuck,” Clarus said, when he ran into Nyx in the claustrophobically small corner it called a smoking area. “Oh,  _fuck_ ,” he repeated, ignoring Nyx’s surprised squawk as he dropped the lit cigarette like it was on fire – well, actually on fire, not just lit – and took off in a brisk pace back inside.

Nyx trailed after him, not running because Nurse Camelia had glared at him the first day, and he wasn’t in the mood to test her patience, but steps brisk enough to try and keep up with Clarus – who clearly hadn’t met Nurse Camelia, and privately Nyx kind of hoped he would.

“Clarus,” Nyx said, as he caught up with him in the elevator, “calm down.”

“He’s been here a week,” Clarus hissed, clearly panicked, “you don’t-”

“I know,” Nyx said, in his best Prompto-please-stop-panicking fatherly voice. “I didn’t leave him alone.”

Clarus still looked dubious about it, but then when they entered the room, they found Cor frowning mightily at a book, and Prompto sprawled on his side, sound asleep.

“Oh,” Clarus said, shoulders sagging. “Hi.”

Cor bared his teeth at him, expression darkening.

“I will  _sit_  on you,” Nyx said from behind Clarus’ bulk, “and I’ll tell Nurse Camelia you’re in pain and need more drugs.”

“Hi, Clarus,” Cor hissed out through gritted teeth.

Clarus did not laugh, but only because he wasn’t entirely sure he trusted this vision of peace to last long.

“Get well soon, my friend,” he offered, and stepped back into the corridor, closing the door.

“You’re exaggerating,” Nyx told him, arching an eyebrow at him. “He’s not a child, Clarus, he’s nearly  _fifty_.”

Clarus stared down at him and then summarily rolled up his sleeves. Nyx blinked at the feathers covering his arms, and then noticed a rather ghastly set of scars on one of his forearms. It took him a moment to realize, with something akin like horrified amusement, that they were bite marks.

“I don’t know how you’re doing what you’re doing,” Clarus said solemnly, “but please, never stop.”

Nyx laughed and failed entirely to choke it back.

“I’m trying.”

* * *

The night before Cor was to be released, Nyx ran into Regis in the lobby, just as he was making his way up from dinner.

“Nyx,” the King said, as he approached him, and Nyx smiled and casually stuck a hand into his pockets, fingering his phone there.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “come to see the hissing beast, as Clarus likes to say?”

“I hear he’s not so hissy lately,” Regis joked in good humor, before he sobered up slightly. “I’m sorry I was not able to come in sooner.”

Nyx smiled easily.

“He’ll be glad to see you,” he lied, stalling just a few extra seconds more, before he pointed towards the lift. “Shall we?”

Nyx managed a very convincing look of surprise when they found the room blissfully empty, if he did say so himself. And he managed not to laugh at the look of fond exasperation on the King’s face, too.

“Well… they were going to release him in the morning,” Nyx said placatingly, “six hours is not that much of a difference, right?”

“At least he didn’t bite anyone on the way out,” Regis deadpanned, rolling his eyes. “Though I do wonder how he got out,” he mused, staring down the closed window – which Prompto had, for once, remembered to close – with a frown. “It’s a long way down from here.”

“He’s creative, I’m sure he thought of something ridiculous,” Nyx replied with a small smile, and tried not to preen too much at a successful operation.

He was a field commander, after all, he knew damn well how to mobilize his troops in the field. And it was always such a pleasure when things went just the way you expected them to…

“Not that he’ll tell you,” Regis snorted, “or me, or anybody who could conceivably use that against him in the future.”

Nyx grinned.

“Let him live in hope that he won’t end up in a hospital bed again,” he said, “so few things give him joy…”

Regis laughed and accompanied Nyx down back to the lobby, to inform them of Cor’s… voluntary checkout and sort out details. Nyx liked Regis alright, he really did, he’d die for his King no matter what. But there was also a brand new emotion in his chest, as he waved him off, taking his procession of Crownsguards with him, and realized he’d just successfully  _played_  him.

That emotion might be glee.

* * *

“He didn’t puke,” Aranea announced proudly, as Nyx entered the living room to find his family sprawled messily in the couch, slowly but steadily demolishing a stack of pizza.

Cor snorted.

“Of course he didn’t,” Nyx chuckled, “we’ve been sparring for years, Nea. He never falls for it anymore.”

“I puked,” Prompto announced without shame, head resting on Cor’s lap and feet propped up the armrest of the couch. “Up should be up and down should be down, and not the other way around.”

“Wuss,” Aranea snapped, and then shifted to leave Nyx enough space to go sit next to Cor, before immediately worming her way under his arm, even before he finished wrapping the other one around Cor’s shoulders. “Why the rush, though? I thought we still had like… half an hour to go.”

“The King showed up,” Nyx said, grinning as Cor’s lips twitched in amusement. “So… overall, I’d rank Operation Fuck This as a solid success, well done team. I’m proud of you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Nyx,” Cor sighed contently, and basked in the sound of their children laughing.


	15. year xx | sweeter than Heaven and hotter than Hell

* * *

_year xx | sweeter than Heaven and hotter than Hell_

* * *

 

“Pretty sure this has to be sacrilegious somehow,” Cor grunted, nails scratching at the glowing runes of the haven as Nyx bore his weight down on him.

Nyx ran his hands up the small of his back, catching on his soaked clothes, pushing up to bare his skin to the shockingly freezing rain, and laughed.

“It’s not a Walk,” he said, and then bowed over him, leaning in to sink his teeth into Cor’s shoulder, knees skinned with the effort as he sank desperately into warm heat, over and over again. “We’re not the ones on trial, tonight.”

Above them the sky rolled with lightning, the roar of thunder stretching wide. Nyx reached a hand to grasp Cor’s, and sneaked the other beneath, grasping at his cock. He grinned at the sound Cor made, low and guttural, like an echo of the rumbling sky above.

Lightning struck the heaven, just barely missing their writhing bodies, and Nyx came with a hoarse yell, body arched back almost in submission.


	16. year xix | do any of the guys dance?

* * *

_year xix | do any of the guys dance?_

* * *

 

Prompto stumbles the first few songs. He steps on Dino’s feet and struggles to keep himself on time with the music: it’s frantic and bouncy and entirely too catchy; he knows he’s going to spend the rest of the week humming bars of it under his breath. Dino laughs and ribs him for it, eyes dancing with encouraging mischief.

And then, between one song and the next, the rhythm  _clicks_.

“That’s the stuff, babe,” Dino purrs, because Prompto feels it, all the way down to his toes, the same way he feels lightning rumbling in the sky in the middle of a good storm. “Knew you had it in you.”

He can’t do the fancy footwork - yet, yet, he’ll learn and it’ll be fun and he wants to, most of all - but he keeps up, letting Dino lead.

“Know what else I could have in me, right now?” Prompto mutters, mock-coy, and snickers when Dino misses a step and nearly stumbles, dragging him down with him.

 


	17. year viii | Prom showing Nyx a family picture he drew.

* * *

 

_year viii | Prom showing Nyx a family picture he drew._

* * *

 

“What’re you doing, little man?” Nyx asked, coming to sit on the couch and peer at Prompto’s drawing on the low table.

“Drawin’,” Prompto said, brow furrowed in concentration. “I liked the storm.”

Nyx smiled, bone deep, and felt his throat closed up a little.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!” Prompto grinned up at him. “I don’t have the right purple though.” He frowned down at his best rendition of the family out on the Walk. “I didn’t know lightning was purple.”

Nyx licked his lips.

“The best kind always is,” he said, and then gave up resisting the urge and simply picked Prompto up into a hug. Prompto made a noise of surprise, but accepted the gesture, beaming up at him and dutifully wrapping his arms around his neck. “I love you, Prom. You know that, right?”

“Course,” Prompto replied, giggling. “Love you too, dad.” He hummed in the back of his throat. “Can we go to the store, later? Get better purple?”

Nyx laughed.

“Sure,” he said, and felt, for the first time in a very long time, like he wasn’t a frantic failure trying to avoid disaster. “We’ll get you all the purple you could ever want.”


	18. year x | Nyx or some of the Glaives' reactions to someone(Cid? Clarus?) telling stories of 15ish yr old Cor's antics.

* * *

_year x | Nyx or some of the Glaives' reactions to someone(Cid? Clarus?) telling stories of 15ish yr old Cor's antics._

* * *

 

“No,” Cor snorted into his beer as he glared at Nyx, who had one leg hooked on one of Cor’s and for the life of him Cor couldn’t remember why he’d meant to tell him to shove off about it, “that’s because you have no sense of self-preservation.”

Libertus raised his beer to clink it with Cor’s, agreeing whole-heartedly to that assessment, but Clarus bursted out cackling at that and startled him so hard he nearly dropped the bottle.

“You are so full of shit, Leonis,” Clarus snarled, barely able to breathe. “You did not just say that, you hypocritical  _brat_.”

Libertus looked over to Cor, expecting a scathing, blistering remark - he liked that about the asshole, he was good with scathing, it was fun to listen to him complain about things if only because he was so very good at it, even when he wasn’t swearing up a storm - but instead found, to his utter amazement, that Cor’s face had turned a very pointed shade of red and his expression was just… priceless.

“I was not that bad,” Cor muttered, sinking further into the couch and maybe possibly up against Nyx’s side.

“You were fifteen!” Clarus said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Fifteen! And I swear to anything holy, we had a separate stack of potions just for your scrawny, suicidal ass. Remember the Thicket? Remember RAVATOGH? You went to pick up a fight with a  _volcano_ , Cor. And let’s not even start on your particular brand of base infiltration.”

“I really don’t think-”

“What was his particular brand of base infiltration?” Nyx asked, one arm wrapped around Cor’s shoulders and expression devious and delighted.

Cor groaned.

“He’d walk up front and kick the door in,” Clarus said, rolling his eyes. “And then Regis would have to warp in and get him out of the line of fire before they shot him full of holes for his trouble.” There was a very small pause. “And he kept doing it.”

“Never did get shot that way,” Cor muttered rebelliously, staring down at his beer.

“Not for lack of fucking trying, you didn’t!”

Libertus did not, on principle, like Clarus Amicitia. He was a stuck up Lucian Lord who threw his weight around and acted superior without even realizing he was doing it.

But just for one night… just for one night, he decided he could like him. A little.

“So that’s what you saw in him,” he told Nyx, and ducked his feet to avoid Cor’s kick, “birds of a feather, you two.”

“You can all fuck off,” Cor murmured irascibly, “I’m disinviting you from my birthday.”

Clarus laughed.

“But I was just about to get to the good part,” he said, grinning as Cor flipped him a very rude gesture and continued his efforts to slowly but surely hide into Nyx’s side. “Remember  _Caem_?”


	19. year vi | How about some little prompto getting his first (or second) teeth?

* * *

 

_year vi | How about some little prompto getting his first (or second) teeth?_

* * *

 

“It’ll fall off on its own,” Cor said, not looking up. “Just leave it alone.”

Prompto frowned mightily and kept rolling his tongue against the loose tooth.

“But it feels funny!” He insisted, flicking it back and forth. “Can’t I just. Pull it out?”

“I guess, but it’ll… probably… hurt…” Cor sighed, looking up just in time to see Prompto do exactly that.

“There!” The boy said, beaming proudly a bloodstained smile. “Done!”

“Oh, shit,” Cor replied very calmly, and then absolutely did not freak out in the slightest. “Nyx!”


	20. year iv | Letho and Cor’s first meeting?

* * *

_year iv | Letho and Cor’s first meeting?_

* * *

 

He wasn’t what she’d been expecting. Admittedly, she wasn’t really sure what she’d been expecting, but the man in front of her, all military lines and stern features was not it. Nyx babbled about his partner - husband, Letho would correct him, sometimes, because he was so painfully, awkwardly married to the man there was no other word for it - every now and then, and the affection bled through the words in an unmistakable way that never failed to make her smile. It was cute, how smitten the dumb moron was, and it filled her with glee when she trolled the chat group that existed purely to gossip about him.

But she’d expected… something softer, maybe. Kinder. Prompto never shut up about the man, either, once prodded into speaking about him. He talked about this larger than life, never ending fountain of knowledge, wise and calm and certain, like a rock that held his world together, while he orbited around his dad.

It was the eyes that got to her, really. Icy blue, lacking the warmth and playfulness of Nyx’s own. Standing beneath that gaze, Letho had the distinct impression she was being judged, and felt small and insignificant before something monstrously large and unspeakably dangerous.

“Letho Savis,” she said, swallowing hard and only after a slight hesitation, reaching out to offer a hand. “At your service.”

He surprised her by taking it. His grip was firm, but not punishingly so, like he was very aware he could break her without even trying, and that cemented in her head, the certainty that this was not a man that should be triffled with.

“Cor Leonis,” he replied, nodding once, sharp and to the point, but that no longer mattered because… well, because she  _knew_. “Nyx said there should be no problem?”

Letho shook her head, mute with fear, and forced herself to swallow hard when she realized he was waiting for an explanation.

“Of course not, Marshal,” she croaked, “no problem at all. I’ll make sure to let them know you’ll be picking up Prompto for the next few days.”

She decided, as he nodded again, that she was going to kill Nyx. She was going to find the biggest, thickest book she owned, and she was going to smush his head with it until it popped like the empty sack of air it clearly was, because who the fuck married Cor The Immortal Leonis, and didn’t have the decency to warn others about it?

Letho needed a drink.


	21. year xxxix | Nyx/Cor with Nyx with a pet coeurl?

* * *

_year xxxix | Nyx/Cor with Nyx with a pet coeurl?_

* * *

 

They see her on the fourth month after they settled in, while they’re sitting on the steps of the cabin, watching sunrise. It’s the little rituals, really, that keep them sane. Sharing coffee in the mornings and watching the sun rise is a spot of normalcy in the middle of all the ridiculous nonsense they’ve done over the years. It’s Nyx who determines it’s a female - she has six horn-like growths around her face, he points out, with a giddy little whisper that makes Cor pull him into a kiss - since Cor’s knowledge on the subject is tenuous at best.

Nyx spends the entire day grinning, afterwards, so hard Cor reckons his face maybe be stuck that way, but he doesn’t really mind.

In the months that follow, they catch glimpses of her, in the morning or around the woods, on their way down to the village for a supply run, or just walking around the trees to start wearing in their own paths. Galahd is healing, slowly but steadily, and the archipelago is flourishing in green once more, almost with a vengeance now that its people have returned.

One particularly memorable morning, they wake up to find the creature lying on the cobble path up the steps, massive bulk nearly the side of the truck they keep further down the hill, closer to the road. Cor has seen many coeurls in his life, and even killed a few when the situation called for it, but he’s never seen one so big before. The deadly whiskers undulate slowly, as she watches them with clever, knowing eyes.

Nyx sits on the steps, as always, and only after a moment of hesitation, Cor does the same. The coeurl drops her head to her front paws, each one as wide as Cor’s chest, and closes her eyes as she basks in the early morning sun.

In Galahd, fear will kill you, Cor thinks, and sips his coffee slowly, one hand loosely holding Nyx’s.

The visits are frequent, after that morning, though they have no real pattern. They see her, watching them, measuring, but not, on the whole, worrying. Cor thinks he might be more Galahdian than he’s willing to admit, these days, because he doesn’t feel in the least bit threatened by a creature he knows, objectively, to be the most dangerous thing on the island.

Then she abruptly vanishes, just as autumn is turning into winter out there in the mainland - Galahd has no seasons, only rain and storms and greenery that takes Cor’s breath away, every now and then, when he tries to count how many shades are in the trees - and Nyx is quieter that winter, whenever he remembers her. It’s their first winter here, though, the first of however long they manage to live on, so Nyx still laughs and grins and Cor wants him to stay that way, forever.

One chilly spring morning, she comes back, seemingly larger and prouder than even before. On the fourth visit they figure out why: there’s three small cubs trailing after her, solid white balls of fluff with proportionately small whiskers that sparkle erratically as they roll around their metaphorical front yard. Nyx cooes at them and leans against Cor’s side, head hooked on his shoulder as they watch them scramble about, trying to bite their mother’s tail.

Each of them will grow up to be the size of a truck, Cor reckons, and the touch of those whiskers will be more than enough to kill a man where he stands, before he can even blink. They’re terrible, beautiful creatures, deadly and proud. He wraps an arm around Nyx’s waist, pulling him closer still, and reckons that this might really be somewhere he can be amongst his kin.


	22. year viii | Sylva’s POV of the Galahad mission

* * *

_year viii | Sylva’s POV of the Galahad mission_

* * *

 

She’d fought Regis, to be able to come. She’d fought his council. She’d fought  _her_ council.

She expected survivors clustered away from the occupation forces. She expected crying children and shaken elders, half consumed by the taint, just like everywhere else she’s gone to, after she began to seek out those who needed her.

She was not expecting to feel so personally unwanted, by the land itself. Ramuh is silent but judging, his presence blanketing the islands like an oppressive, constant weight that Nyx and his friends somehow find comforting instead of worrysome. The Astrals are not, in her experience, a familiar presence to most, and that is usually a good thing. They’re not human, for all they like to meddle with human affairs. Ramuh is here, and Ramuh is angry, profoundly and sincerely offended and retaliating with a depth of rage she’s not sure they could survive, if it turned against them. She calls to him, anyway, asks him to let her come and mend the wound, and he opens passage into the island, though she thinks, not for her, but for  _them_. Something about them calls his attention, far more sharply than her voice across the waves.

She had expected Galahd occupied and broken, like Cleigne and Leide and Duscae, were and had been, before Shiva’s mortal body was destroyed and she put a stop to the Empire for the time being. Cleigne and Leide and Duscae were full of troops and hapless survivors, of monsters and yes, daemons… but Galahd is different. Galahd burns with the Fulgurian’s rage, scorched down to barebones in his rage - a rage he refuses to lift, for all he’s allowed them to step on the shore, and the rain cuts cold and painful against her skin, but she fought for her right to come here, and she will not complain about her choices, not to men who don’t understand the gravity of them. Galahd is barren, between Ramuh’s wrath and something Sylva has never seen to this extent before: the scourge, untreated, untamed, eating through everything, even the ground. The trees and the animals and the air, ooze with the miasma of it, the putrid, toxic damnation of it.

This, she realizes, standing in the rain amidst a field of fallen daemons, ground blackened and sky dark, this is what happens, if she and her kind fail. This is the world without light, the world of the fallen.

She’s not surprised when he comes, whistling his ancient, forgotten song, carrying with him the scream of millions. Sylva fought for her right to be here, but she will not die here. She cannot. If she dies, the world becomes Galahd.

They don’t get it, of course. They’re testy and wary and strange, in that feral, vicious way that their land has made them into. She is recipient of a pact as old as the world’s doom; when she speaks, the Astrals heed her call. She cannot command them, but she can compel them to listen. They yell at the heavens, instead, vicious and sincere, and the heavens yell back, with lightning and thunder and a vision of Ramuh that takes her by surprise, because he’s heeding their call, even though he doesn’t have to.

Sylva will lay awake, many nights from now, thinking about Galahd and Ramuh and Nyx’s people, like someone fiddling with a puzzle a few pieces short, and still determined to fix it anyway.


	23. year xix | more Prompto and Dino interactions

* * *

_year xix | more Prompto and Dino interactions_

* * *

 

Prompto kept forgetting that Dino was a civilian - he was sharp and mouthy like the best in the Crownsguard and he gave as good as he got, always - up until he reminded him he was.

“Shut up, you can’t!” Dino laughed, staring at him with dancing eyes as Prompto sprawled happily on his bed. “I’m like…”

“Hundred-and-sixty, tops,” Prompto told him, with the ease of someone who did that sort of math on the fly and had been trained to know how to take down someone in stealth, based on their weight. “Yeah, I totally can.”

It wasn’t really anything special. Prompto was by a long shot one of the physically weakest members of the Crownsguard, but that was mostly because his skillset was very much not geared towards frontline combat. His job was to sneak in, unseen, and steal info or plant sabotage. He was fast and flexible and agile enough to make Gladio mad at him, whenever they sparred together. But there was a minimum requirement of strength, and he thought of the years training for it, once he’d made his mind up about what he wanted. It still made him giddy, the way Dino looked at him, so Prompto crawled off the bed and walked up to him, and then picked him up in one single, fluid motion, sweeping him off his feet with an arched eyebrow and a little smirk. He’d handled gattling guns that were heavier than him, and they definitely didn’t squeak or stutter or flush when he did. It was nice.

“See?” Prompto asked, grinning, “easy.”

“Shit,” Dino whispered, holding onto his neck, “shit, that’s hot.”

 


	24. year xiii | King Regis trolling Nyx and Cor.

* * *

_year xiii | King Regis trolling Nyx and Cor._

* * *

 

“You want us to  _what_?” Nyx asked, blinking at his King warily.

Cor gave up pretenses and glared.

“Regis,” he said, warningly, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.

“It is in fact a very simple request,” Regis said, ignoring them both, “it will give your men a good chance to get to know you and hopefully help curb some of that ridiculous rivalry you’ve allowed to go on entirely for too long.” He arched an eyebrow. “At the very least, this idea does not involve you beating each other up to a pulp before an audience.”

“But we  _like_ beating each other up to a pulp before an audience,” Nyx blurted out, and then shrugged when Regis gave him a long-suffering look. “It’s the highlight of the biannual reviews.”

“And I’d like you both to keep your foreplay outside the Citadel,” he said, voice dry like the vastness of Leide.

Nyx turned a lovely shade of magenta for the comment. Cor became incredibly curious about the painting of Regis’ mother that hung on the wall of his office. Regis snorted.

“Unless of course, you feel you’re not equipped to handle each other’s responsibilities,” Regis went on, arching an eyebrow just so. “In which case, of course, I’ll figure something else. Something nicer and less stressful.”

Nyx and Cor shared a look. They knew they were being set up. They knew. They still nodded at each other, because what else were they supposed to do?

“Fine,” Cor sighed, “name your date.”

“Tomorrow should be fine,” Regis said demurely, as if it were no big deal.

And that’s how Cor ended up deployed to Cleigne for a month with a pack of snarky, panicky, screaming glaives, and Nyx spent said month running after Monica like a small child, hyperventilating at every thing.

“You’re a terrible person,” Clarus mused, watching Nyx try very hard not to give into the urge to beat the shit out of Cor’s snarly, sneery best operatives.

“The Regalia, Clarus,” Regis deadpanned, “they were fucking in my car.”

“Which you lent to them, yes,” Clarus snorted, shaking his head.

“To drive my son back home, not to act like randy teenagers.”


	25. year iv | how about Nyx getting hurt and Cor dealing with it?

* * *

_year iv | how about Nyx getting hurt and Cor dealing with it?_

* * *

 

“I’m dying,” Nyx whined miserably, from beneath the pile of blankets he’d buried himself under.

“You’re not dying,” Cor replied patiently, not looking up from his book, lying on the half of the bed that wasn’t currently occupied by a blanket-Galahdian burrito.

“I’m dying and you’re horrible, leaving me here to die, cold and alone,” Nyx went on, squirming about until he could peer at Cor through a small gap in the blankets.

“You’re not dying,” Cor repeated, meeting that furtive eye with an arched eyebrow. “You have the flu. Which you wouldn’t have gotten, if you’d bothered to take your shots like a normal human being.”

Nyx made a hissy sound and curled up into a ball of blankets, duvet and misery. Cor shrugged.

“You’re like… the worst caregiver. You should be pampering and loving me and reminding me how much I matter,” Nyx groused after a moment, unfurling from the ball to glare at Cor, once he grew bored and hot under the covers. “You’re not even making me chicken soup.”

“You abhor chicken,” Cor deadpanned, still not looking at him.

“Well, yes,” Nyx snorted, “but it’s  _symbolic_.” Nyx wormed his way to lay on Cor’s side, sneaking his head beneath an arm to peer at his book. “What are you reading?”

“A historical treaty on the suspected assassinations carried out by the Rogue Queen, between 395 and 421.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Nyx muttered, shifting again until he found a comfortable spot, mostly holding onto Cor like he was a giant stuffed animal.

Cor hummed in the back of his throat.

“Surprisingly gory, if you’re into that kind of thing,” he mused, in a tone that implied he was.

“Morbid,” Nyx snorted. “Read to me?”

Cor shrugged, and did.


	26. year xv | Hottest Insomnia Gossip: You won’t BELIEVE what happened!

* * *

_year xv | Hottest Insomnia Gossip: You won’t BELIEVE what happened!_

* * *

 

Cor was laughing at him again.

“It’s not funny!” Nyx hissed at him, because as always, he couldn’t quite enjoy the rare sight of Cor laughing, when he was the reason for it.

“It’s absolutely hysterical,” Cor deadpanned, cutting off the laughter abruptly to stare at him with a wide smirk, fangs fully visible for once.

“I hate you and your stupid face and your stupid  _fangs_ and I’m going to go hide out in the basement and drink through your entire liquor cabinet now.”

As soon as Nyx stomped out of sight, Cor started laughing again. On the table, a morning edition of the paper had a picture of Nyx and Sylva dancing in last night’s gala, with a large header that read: FORBIDDEN LOVE IN THE CITADEL, THE ORACLE AND THE GALAHDIAN ROGUE!

 


	27. year vi | Cor and Nyx dying contentedly, together, after a long and happy life, with all of their children still alive and flourishing, snarking and smiling and one another until the very end.

* * *

 

_year vi | Cor and Nyx dying contentedly, together, after a long and happy life, with all of their children still alive and flourishing, snarking and smiling and one another until the very end._

* * *

 

“That’s… a lovely story, Prompto,” Nyx said, blinking and trying to hold back a cackle. “I’m very… uh, fond of the fact that we die at the end of it,” he went on, a little dubiously.

“All men must die,” Prompto said gravely, in the serious tones of a six year old who has seen things, namely his sister’s choice in TV series. He brightened up. “But you die together so no one’s left behind!”

“Very kind of you,” Cor deadpanned, leaning on the counter to better spectate the whole thing.

“I know,” Prompto nodded, closing his book solemnly. “I try my best.”

They watched him scurry off with a vaguely concerned expression, and shared a loud sigh once he was out of earshot.

“Our son just killed us for his homework,” Nyx mused, not quite sure how to feel about that.

“It’s not such a bad battle plan,” Cor said after a moment, perhaps a bit more somberly than he intended. When Nyx stared at him, he shrugged.

“Aww, you wanna grow old together with me,” Nyx said, grinning as he went to wrap his arms around him. “You’re in love with me, you fucker.”

“Lies,” Cor muttered, looking away but not freeing himself from the hold. “I keep you around for the sex and the tax breaks.”


	28. year iv | Maybe something about Letho an Nyx after she meets Cor?

* * *

_year iv | Maybe something about Letho an Nyx after she meets Cor?_

* * *

 

It took Nyx a moment to realize he’d been slapped, then pain bloomed across his face, all the way into his skull. He winced.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing his cheek and the quickly reddening hand print on it. “The hell was that for?”

“You’re married to Cor Leonis,” Letho hissed at him, grey eyes flashing nearly violet with the promise of violence. “ _Cor Leonis_ , Nyx. And you didn’t tell me!”

“We’re not actually married,” Nyx muttered sullenly, flinching as she glared at him over the rim of her glasses, her hand twitching as if considering a second slap. “I mean… it didn’t… seem relevant, at the time. You know. He’s just… the guy I live with. And sleep with. And raise Prompto with. It never… it didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“You’re  _married_ to Cor  _The Immortal_ Leonis,” Letho insisted,”don’t you think it’d have been relevant to give me a goddamn warning before he walked into my office?”

“Well, I never thought he’d ever walk into your office at any point!” He threw his arms up in the air, rolling his eyes before he stopped and stared down at her. “Wait, did he do something? Because if he was rude, I will kick his ass. I told him to be nice to you.”

“Oh no,” Letho deadpanned, “he was extremely nice and polite and also COR FUCKING LEONIS. IN MY OFFICE. WITHOUT WARNING.”


	29. year xvi | Nyx did comment that Cor could probably kill someone with his fangs. How do you think Nyx would react to the fact Cor might have actually done that before?

* * *

 

_year xvi | Nyx did comment that Cor could probably kill someone with his fangs. How do you think Nyx would react to the fact Cor might have actually done that before?_

 

* * *

 

“You  _what_?” Nyx said, staring.

Cor shrugged uncomfortably.

“I told you, you wouldn’t have liked me at sixteen,” he muttered, looking away. “Anyway, yes, that was a thing, are you happy now?”

“No, actually,” Nyx frowned, “no, I’m not. What the fucking hell were you doing, that ended up with you tearing out someone’s throat with your teeth?” And then, a bit lower, a bit angrier. “And where the fuck was Clarus when this was going on?”

“I don’t wish to discuss it,” Cor replied, in that toneless, spineless voice of his that made Nyx twitch with the urge for violence.

“Fair enough,” he said instead, “we don’t have to. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Cor shrugged.

“It’s a fair question, and you’re not the first to ask it.”

Nyx was, however, the first one to corner Clarus about it. Clarus disliked getting yelled at for things twenty years past, but despite the yelling and the swearing, he walked out of it liking Nyx a good deal better than he already did. It was a surprisingly high bar to reach, that, showing open concern for Cor. Clarus only hoped his idiot of a friend actually appreciated it.

 


	30. year ix | Nyx and Cor totally not freaking out about Aranea dating.

* * *

_year ix | Nyx and Cor totally not freaking out about Aranea dating._

* * *

 

“Well, shit,” Nyx said, staring at the living room like it was a kingdom in ashes. “The hell do we do now?”

“First step?” Cor asked, arching an eyebrow at him. “We’re  _not_ telling her not to.”

“Right,” Nyx nodded, then stopped, blinked and squinted at Cor. “Wait, we’re not?”

“We’re not,” Cor replied, meeting his stare head on.

“But it’s-”

“I’m well aware,” Cor sighed, hooking his elbows on the backseat of the couch. “But if you tell her not to, I guarantee you she’s gonna do it out of spite, even if she’s almost halfway decided against it already.” He frowned. “In fact, she’ll do it even  _more_ , in a more dramatic and possibly long-term way, just to spite us, for the gall to try and tell her what to do.” When Nyx stared at him a little, Cor shrugged. “…it’s what I would do, at her age, and she has a habit of doing exactly the same dumb shit I did, at her age.” There was a small pause. “So no, we’re not going to tell her that she can’t date Luche, mostly because I’d very much prefer if she doesn’t go out there and  _marries_ Luche, just to fuck with us.”

“She wouldn’t marry the git just out of spite!” Nyx spluttered, trying to laugh. Cor arched an eyebrow at him, and he pondered for a moment. He groaned, burying his face into his hands. “She would absolutely marry Luche out of spite.”

“It’s the perfect thing to piss you off, too,” Cor mused, lips twitching. “You dislike him, he’s your subordinate, he’s her superior officer…” He paused. “Damn, she’s good at this.”

“Can you please stop appreciating her talent to defy authority and remember that we’re the authority being defied here?” Nyx snapped dryly, arching an eyebrow at Cor.

“Right.”


	31. year ix | Aranea and Prompto, sibling bonding.

* * *

_year ix | Aranea and Prompto, sibling bonding._

* * *

 

“Dad’s gonna yell at you~” Prompto singsonged, watching Aranea frantically scrub at the scratch on the car door’s paint. She glared at him

“Shush it,” she snapped, and glowered when Prompto merely grinned at her, balancing on his heels. “…what?”

“He doesn’t have to yell at  _you_ , though…” Prompto said, expression angelic.

Aranea narrowed her eyes and then scowled at the scratch. 

“How much?” She hissed, between clenched teeth. 

“Gladio’s never been to the arcade in Farcorner street,” Prompto explained, grinning, “so… next Friday?”

“…fine,” Aranea snorted, “but I’m not paying.” 

“Just need the adult supervision,” Prompto replied, grinning cheekily at the adult bit of that sentence in a way that made her want to punch his goddamn teeth in. “Deal?” 

“…deal,” she scoffed. 

Prompto made a show of apologizing for not paying attention and scratching the car with his bike. Nyx rolled his eyes and relegated him to chores for a few days, and no one had to yell at Aranea for taking the car when she was explicitly barred from doing so.

“Am I good, or am I good?” Prompto said, all of nine years old and already well-versed in the power of a good innocent look.

Aranea ruffled his hair.

“Shut up, nerd,” she snapped, but did, in fact, pay for his dumb playdate with Gladio.


	32. year i | the Glaives meeting Prompto for the first time?

* * *

_year i | the Glaives meeting Prompto for the first time?_

* * *

 

“No,” Libertus said, glowering at Nyx. “Put that back where you found it, shit.”

“Kinda can’t anymore,” Nyx replied, and cuddled the boy to his chest.

“Well, don’t get attached then!” Libertus insisted, “the fuck do you even know about caring for a kid? Give him to someone who’ll look after him, proper.”

“No,” Nyx said very quietly, very softly, and also very finally.

Libertus frowned at him. Nyx glared back. Serenely, granted, but still a glare. Libertus sighed after a moment.

“Fine, give it here, let’s see what ugly face you’re stuck with now, then.”


	33. year ix | maybe Nyx, getting really really REALLY wasted and another having to take care of him

* * *

 

_year ix | maybe Nyx, getting really really REALLY wasted and another having to take care of him_

* * *

“Really?” Cor said, staring Pelna down with a glare. He relished a little in the way Pelna shrunk back. “ _Really_.”

“…they might have gotten carried away,” Pelna muttered, staring at anything but Cor’s increasingly unamused expression, “a little.”

On the floor - Libertus had put them on the couch, before he absconded from the room without giving Cor much time to splutter about it, but they had lost their balance and slid off, giggling and snickering - Nyx and Aranea were now blissfully snoring away, possibly drooling. Cor didn’t want to look too closely.

“A little,” Cor repeated, voice perfectly deadpan.

Pelna flinched.

“It’s traditional!” He said, trying his very best to disappear. “…when someone finishes the warping course successfully. She’d been having so much trouble with it, too, so. It was… very exciting. For all of us.” Cor continued to stare down his nose at him. Pelna swallowed hard. “I should go now, shouldn’t I.”

“Good night, Pelna,” Cor said, in his best civil tone, and only snorted once Pelna finished scrambling out of the room and the door had closed behind him. “As for you two…”

It was, matter of fact, something of an art, making his way out of the Citadel while balancing a drunken teenager in one arm, and two hundred pounds of solid drunken muscle on his back.

“Not a word,” Cor hissed at Monica, as he passed her by on the way to the elevator.

“I’d never dare, sir,” Monica replied, in the amused tones of one who knew her lies were received exactly as intended.

Getting them in the car was an ordeal. Aranea tried to flee and ended up stuck in the window, half in and half out, gigglesnorting as she dangled in place, stretching her fingers to try and touch the ground. Nyx kissed him, while Cor was trying to shuffle him in through the other side of the backseat, sloppy and messy and somehow Cor ended up on the tiny, cramped floor of the backseat, with Nyx muttering incoherent filth into his forehead. He took a deep breath. Then another. Then squirmed his way out of the car, put on the child safety lock on the door and closed it, leaving Nyx half sprawled on the seat, trying steadily to unlock the door and go after him. Settling Aranea in involved dodging a couple kicks and a very valiant attempt at a headbutt that landed somewhere on his chest. Another child lock in place, and then Cor walked around the car to finally, finally head home.

He got a morbid pleasure from the puking and the general misery, in the morning, and it wasn’t mostly because he spent most of the day being chased around by two balls of whining misery trying to cuddle up his person. Well, Nyx wanted to cuddle away his hangover; Aranea mostly wanted someone to bitch at about it, and if she happened to cuddle up his side to do so, that was purely a side effect and not at all the intended objective.

 


	34. year iv | Nyx/Cor non-sexual intimacy

* * *

_year iv | Nyx/Cor non-sexual intimacy_

* * *

 

“What’s this one from?” Nyx asked, lying in bed, one arm hooked behind his head, the other wrapped around Cor’s body as his hand slowly but surely traced the million and one scars on his skin.

Cor was quiet for a moment, frowning and trying to remember.

“Aramusha,” he said after a moment, as Nyx scratched a nail over the two inch cut that, on second thought, was in the right place to match a similar scar on Cor’s chest.

That was an unpleasant thought, so Nyx sidestepped it as neatly as he could.

“What’s that?” Nyx asked, eyebrows arched curiously, if only because Cor seemed to have fought all types of daemons in the world - and gotten scars from all of them - at least once.

“Ronin’s shitty, stronger cousins,” Cor snorted. “They make for poor sparring partners.”

“Yes, well, most people say that about Ronin, too,” Nyx pointed out a little dryly, and snickered when Cor rolled his eyes. “But that hasn’t stopped you yet.”

“Most people don’t know the difference between handling a sword and a  _cock_ ,” he deadpanned, and huffed a little when Nyx leaned in to kiss his forehead, burying a laugh against his skin.

“You’re basically ridiculous,” Nyx mused contently, as Cor shifted to lay further on him, head tucked on his shoulder. “Did you know that?”

Cor shrugged and not-quite snuggled up against his side.

 


	35. year vi | Prompto filling his tiny hands or pockets or even a bucket with frogs/snails/pill bugs/creepy crawly of choice? then gleefully gifting them to someone extra special?

* * *

_year vi | Prompto filling his tiny hands or pockets or even a bucket with frogs/snails/pill bugs/creepy crawly of choice? then gleefully gifting them to someone extra special?_

* * *

 

Prompto hates bugs, in general, and spiders, in particular. He finds their many legs creepy and the surplus of eyes terrifying. He cries when Gladio shows him crickets and shrieks when he sees tiny shadows skittering along the bathroom floor.

But slugs?

Slugs are soft, squishy friends. They’re gentle and delicate and come out with the rain. Prompto likes playing in the rain, rolling around in the grass with his dad, and forgetting all about the many legs, many eyes that lurk in there.

Slugs are the best.

Aranea does not like slugs. It’s one of Aranea’s many, many faults, even if Prompto generally adores her. But Aranea is a mean bully who ate the super special cupcake Prompto had been saving for a - metaphorical - rainy day. Aranea screeches like a banshee when he drops a slug down the front of her shirt, and Prompto cackles in delight as he runs down the stairs and scrambles up the couch to land into the safety of Cor’s lap before she can get her hands on him.


	36. year xiv | Prompto has a tea party with the terrible three.

* * *

_year xiv | Prompto has a tea party with the terrible three._

* * *

 

“…how did we end up like this?” Noctis asked no one in particular, sitting cramped in the too-small plastic chair he still wasn’t entirely sure wasn’t going to give under his weight and staring balefully at the equally plastic, equally flimsy tea set before him.

“Iris,” Prompto told him, sipping daintily from his cup, or at least pretending to.

Noct thought he really had entirely too much fun with these little disasters, but he didn’t want to point it out in case Prompto decided to do it more just to annoy him.

“Honestly,” Ignis said, patiently folding his napkin into a swan, “it’s harmless fun, Noct.”

"Yeah,” Gladio snorted, clearly suffering the worst of the tiny pink chairs, considering his knees were folded almost to his ears. “She could’ve just as easily decided to brawl.”

“I’d have taken the brawl,” Noct said gloomily, and blinked at the varying degrees of pity he was being subjected to. “What?”

“You don’t want to brawl with Iris,” Prompto said solemnly.

“Iris is… extremely talented,” Ignis added, nervously pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Yeah, and she’s the perfect height to suckerpunch your dick,” Gladio deadpanned, in the pained voice of a recovering victim.

“I brought cookies!” Iris announced as she bounced back into the room, beaming proudly. “Jared made them.”

Noct pondered for a moment, and then sighed loudly.

“That’s lovely, Iris,” he murmured, offering his best attempt at a smile.

Three weeks later he got to see her in action and decided… well, tea parties were not so bad, after all.


	37. year xx | Gladio, Prompto & Genji blade

* * *

_year xx | Gladio, Prompto & Genji blade_

* * *

 

Gladio walks out of the cave with a dazed, almost dumbfounded look on his face. The rest area is only a short walk away, and he finds himself walking towards it without really thinking about it.

Luna sees him first, jumping off the large crate she’d been sitting on and waving as she approaches, calling out his name. By the time his feet are stepping on the gravel of the parking lot, everyone else has come to find him. Gladio wheezes out a soft, awkward laugh and bows his head to allow Ignis to inspect the new scar across his forehead. He tries his best to answer the barrage of questions from Luna and Noct, aiming for reassuring but not quite making the mark. Ravus watches him curiously from a distance, but that’s Ravus at his friendliest, so Gladio doesn’t really mind.

It’s Prompto hanging back and staring at him weirdly that eventually snaps Gladio back into himself enough to ask.

“What?” He asks, swallowing hard as he realizes Prompto is staring at the sword in his hand, rather than him.

“…well, fucking hell,” Prompto says, burying his face in his hands. “Shit.”

“What?” Gladio insists, ignoring the mild scandalized looks whenever Prompto drops profanity like it’s going out of style. He’s heard him drop it in an entirely different context, too, and he knows the man can do much better than that. “Prom, you’re freaking me out.”

“ _I_ ’m freaking  _you_ out?” Prompto snorts, shaking his head. He raises a hand, light gathering to it, but it’s not a gun resting in his hand when the glimmer dies. “Dude.”

Gladio stares at the short sword in Prompto’s hand. It’s much shorter than the heavy, curved blade he’s holding, but the handle and the guard are identical. Prompto nods slowly, as the pieces of the puzzle fall into place and Gladio shudders.

“Fucking hell,” he says, hoarse, echoing Prompto’s words. “Shit, I didn’t think your dad could get any more goddamn badass than he is.”

Prompto laughs awkwardly.

“That’s Cor for you.”


	38. year ii | Cor indulging in his sweet tooth or someone finding out about said sweet tooth

* * *

_year ii | Cor indulging in his sweet tooth or someone finding out about said sweet tooth_

* * *

 

Nyx loves watching Cor eat.

It’s not even sexual. He supposes it could be, if he really tried to look at it that way, but most of the time it’s just…  _he enjoys it so much_. Nyx is used to valuing food more for the company than the food itself, though after arriving to Insomnia, finding pockets of familiarity have made the tastes from home just as meaningful. But there’s something methodical and careful about the way Cor eats. Like he’s focusing all his attention on it, letting himself enjoy it. Nyx is guilty of eating while he’s working, but he’s found himself making time to hit the canteen more often, if only because Cor has a preternatural sense to know when he’s there, and zero in on his table. Nyx doesn’t even care the jerk usually ends up eating half his plate, when he does.

(Nyx does care, a lot, that he is actually allowed to eat at the officer’s canteen, what with the new rank and the new responsibilities and the fact every single one of those officers looks at him and thinks  _Not Titus Drautos_ , and he shouldn’t be bitter about this, but he is. Always.)

It’s a game they play, of sorts. Nyx tolerates maybe half a teaspoon of sugar in his coffee mid-morning, whereas Cor drops three tablespoons, per mug. So it’s very clear, whenever Nyx picks up an extra serving of dessert or something obviously, sickeningly sweet, that he’s not going to eat it.

(Sometimes he has to. Sometimes Cor doesn’t stroll into the canteen like he owns the place - he technically does, outranking every single member of the standing military in Lucis, save the King and his Shield, and even the Shield’s rank prospective the Marshal’s is a hot debate among some circles… Nyx avoids those circles as best he can. The point is, sometimes Cor is busy or tired or he forgets. Maybe he just doesn’t want to. This isn’t an exact science, this game of theirs, they don’t have set dates or agreements of any kind. Sometimes Cor isn’t there and Nyx forces himself to eat through the sweets, because he’s too much himself, still to let them go to waste. Or maybe he’ll take them on with him and drop them for Crowe, if he really can’t take them, but that feels wrong, somehow, to give someone else something of Cor’s. Even if it was Cor’s unofficially.)

Cor sits across him, always, and he’s not subtle when he swipes his share off his plate. Nyx will glare and snark,and Cor will deadpan and snark back, and they’ll eat in comfortable vitriol that’s as easy as sharing a flat.

(Sharing flats, in Nyx experience, is not supposed to be easy. He lived in a dilapidated shoebox, before he died, mostly because it was the best he could afford without having to share. He tried to share, before, with strangers and friends and Libertus, even, and every single one of them drove him crazy without trying. Cor doesn’t chafe, that way. Cor exists precisely beyond the borders of his own life, close enough to touch, but never actually brushing against each other, and Nyx likes it, desperately, and tells himself it’s stupid to.)

His favorite thing to not eat - and watch Cor eat instead - are cinnamon rolls. Cor takes extra long to eat those, unfolding them bit by bit, one bite at the time, and there’s something decadent in the way he licks his fingers when he’s done. It’s not sexual, but it could be, if it were Nyx licking his fingers for him. Cor’s utilitarian about it, utterly unfazed. He’s not teasing, which makes the teasing all the worse, because it’s all in Nyx’s head.

(Nyx would lick more than fingers, if he could, and he’d ignore the sugary glaze because the only thing he wants is the taste of Cor’s skin beneath it. It’s a terrible thought and he should look away. He never does.)

It’s all in his head, and that’s fine. It’s fine. Cor smiles, sometimes, when he catches sight of Nyx’s plate.

It’s fine.


	39. year vii | Could we see some of Clarus’s mental screaming about Cor’s parenting choices?

* * *

_year vii | Could we see some of Clarus’s mental screaming about Cor’s parenting choices?_

* * *

 

Clarus was having flashbacks from the war.

Literally.

In his office, curled up in an armchair with a priceless antique of a book spread on her lap, Aranea scowled mightily at the archaic language and overly complicated turn of prose, while her left hand was idly fiddling with a butterfly knife, going through the motions to fold and unfold it, over and over again.

He knew exactly who had taught her that. He knew. He recognized the twitch on the wrist.

Clarus contemplated the fact Cor felt the need to teach a sixteen year old how to fiddle with knives, and decided he was not suicidal enough to comment on it. He’d made the mistake to openly question his friend’s choices, in regards to his children - his children, Clarus still didn’t know how that happened or why, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to, but it was bizarre to think of Cor and think of him as being a father, with all it entitled - once.

Just once.

Still, he supposed he shouldn’t complain. He’d not been particularly enthusiastic when Cor told him - didn’t ask him, the petulant brat, no, he’d told him and expected Clarus to accept the terms without a fuss - that he was going to help Nyx mentor Aranea in the higher nuances of military command. He had not expected the girl to actually put effort into things, showing a remarkable determination and commitment to the work. She was mouthy and bratty and entirely too much like Cor, for comfort, but she crucially lacked his innate refusal to accept anyone could know more than he did, at that age.

Still, the similarities were too much for comfort, and the new inclusion of the butterfly knife was just grinding Clarus’ sanity to dust.

She was  _sixteen_. 

Clarus tried to imagine Iris at sixteen, and putting a knife in her hands, and he nearly threw up at the thought. Cor would probably laugh at him, if he told him. But that was just because Cor was an idiot who didn’t understand some things required softness and kindness to grow. Though given the fact his daughter was essentially a seadevil with nicer hair, there wasn’t much to be done.

Still.

Sixteen.

Astrals.


	40. year xvii | teenage Prompto getting into trouble

* * *

_year xvii | teenage Prompto getting into trouble_

* * *

 

“I mean,” Prompto begins, with aplomb that honestly impresses Noctis, considering he’s being stared down by both his parents, and both his parents are  _fucking terrifying_. “Technically speaking, it wasn’t really theft.”

“Really?” Cor asks, one eyebrow arched slowly, “you’re going to go with that?”

“Oh please,” Nyx continues, “let him, I’m dying to hear how hotwiring a car to take it into illegal street races is not theft.”

“I mean,” Prompto goes on, shrugging, “it’s technically  _his_ car anyway.” He points at Noctis with a thumb, and Noctis glares at him because he’d been trying his honest best to not be noticed. “Well, okay, it’s his dad’s car, but he’s going to inherit it one day, right? So it’s technically his future car, so it’s not stealing just because the keys were… mysteriously misplaced.”

“Really,” Cor insists, voice utterly deadpan.

“Tell you what,” Nyx says, eyes narrowed as he smirks. “You spin that yarn on the King, and if he buys it you’re off the hook.”

Prompto swallows hard.

“And if he doesn’t?”

Nyx grins cheerfully.

“You’ll definitely be old enough to drive, by the time you’re done being grounded.”


	41. year ix | Cor and Nyx sit Prompto (and his friends?) down and give him The Talk

* * *

_year ix | Cor and Nyx sit Prompto (and his friends?) down and give him The Talk_

* * *

 

“So!” Nyx said, leaning to rest his arms on the table and stare down his children, “sex.”

“Nope,” Aranea replied immediately, raising her hands in the air as Prompto choked on spit and flushed scarlet.

“Sit down, Nea,” Cor muttered, looking utterly unruffled from his corner of the table.

Aranea slumped down in her chair with an irritated hiss.

“We’re not having this conversation,” she muttered, folding her arms defiantly over her chest.

“We are,” Nyx replied, with a tint of fake cheer to his tone that made her twitch. Prompto continued to flush and quietly hope he’d just spontaneously burst into flame. “Because sex is a thing, and we need ground rules about it.”

“Do we?” Prompto squeaked, utterly mortified.

“Since your sister decided to have sex with her boyfriend on the hood of Cor’s car?” Nyx replied, in that same tone, “yes, yes, we do.”

“We weren’t having sex, for fuck’s sake,” Aranea snarled, face flushed. “We were just making out.”

“Handjobs count as sex,” Cor deadpanned, looking utterly unruffled. “In case you were not aware.”

“Which means we’re going to go through definitions,” Nyx pointed out, eyebrows arched, “before we get into rules. Right. So!” He repeated, one eyebrow arched. “Sex.”


	42. year xiii | someone tries to kidnap Prom since he's the kid of two important figures. How would Nyx and Cor react?

* * *

 

_year xiii | someone tries to kidnap Prom since he's the kid of two important figures. How would Nyx and Cor react?_

* * *

 

“This isn’t your jurisdiction,” Cor says, staring down Nyx as best he can. “This does not concern the Kingsglaive.”

Nyx punches him in the mouth for it. Cor knows he deserves it, probably. He stands his ground anyway. He orders Clarus to keep Nyx in place - orders, does not ask, and Clarus thins his lips in annoyance and nods sharply, once, though Cor knows they’ll have words about this, when it’s all said and done - because even now his mind is going through the tactical steps. Nyx cannot afford to go into a rampage over this. Not politically, not emotionally. Not when there’s still people out there who would take that as a cue that he should not keep his son.

Cor goes through the motions carefully, slowly, tying up loose ends as he goes.

“You know you should not be involved in this,” Monica tells him, but crucially, after delivering the report and a location.

“Duly noted,” Cor replies, shrugging, “have clean up on standby,” he adds, and then he leaves.

It’s frightening, somewhat, how easily it comes back to him, killing people. He’s always been good at it, before Regis relegated him to killing monsters and machinery too big and dangerous for anyone else to handle. He’s not subtle about it, either, but he doesn’t have to be. He’s quick and efficient and ruthless, and most of the men he cuts down as he goes don’t even really notice it before they’re dead. It’s preferable, that way. Less messy. Less risky.

An eternity later, he walks out of the slaughterhouse, his son in is arms: still asleep, still drugged, still caught in whatever bullshit they used to get him. He doesn’t need to kill anyone else - there isn’t anyone else, not really - but it clings to him, like a second skin, and it gets him extra space and extra wariness and extra willingness to do as he says.

“Tell me when you stop being mad,” Cor tells Nyx, hours later, sitting out in a cramped hospital waiting room, blood crusted on the sole of his boots and under his nails, “so I can stop being rational about it.”

Nyx links their fingers together and says nothing, which is, in itself, everything that needs to be said.


	43. year xviii | Awkward family dinners

* * *

_year xviii | Awkward family dinners_

* * *

 

“That was… a good job,” Nyx said after a moment of silence, staring at the flamming wreckage that was left of Fort Vaullerey with a slight frown. “Prom.”

The Original Crow’s Nest was situated in such a way that they could see the fire still raising to the sky from the windows, bright against the night sky.

“Thanks, dad,” Prompto replied, chewing his way through the massive plate of fries in the center of the table

Aranea snorted into her salmon at the massive understatement.

“I can’t help but point out,” Cor muttered after a moment, “that rocket launchers are not part of the saboteaur curriculum.”

Nyx buried his laugh into a can of beer.

“Ah. Yeah. That.” Prompto shrugged carefully. “Monica did say improvising was half of the job, though.”

 


	44. year i | Cor’s pov of coming across Nyx & Prompto at that haven

* * *

_year i | Cor’s pov of coming across Nyx & Prompto at that haven_

* * *

 

Cor fancies himself someone who’s not very easily surprised. After all, he survived being part of Regis’ retinue, and all the carefully controlled chaos that entitled, and then he’s moved on and become something of a living legend - thanks, Regis, really,  _thanks for that_ \- that sometimes feels a bit too large or heavy on his shoulders, and which coincidentally means most people come to him for all the weirdest, crappiest shit they can imagine. So he’s not exactly expecting to find anything extraordinary in the wild outlands of Nilfheim.

The one thing Cor is, above all else, is loyal. To his King. To his friends. To his subordinates. No one questioned him when he decided to take off and check on Lyra, simply because she was taking too long for his liking, to make her way back. Cor likes Lyra, she’s vicious and petty and has the worst snorting cackle in the world, but she’s always done everything he’s ever asked of her, without question. It was Lyra who helped him built the Crownsguard into what it is today, allowing him to take over the more straightforward, military side of it, while also retaining the underhanded, secret bits that were crucial for survival of the war.

Cor does not worry about her - he doesn’t worry about anyone, anymore - because she knows what she’s doing better than he does. He doesn’t worry even if he knows Drautos is a traitor - somewhere deep beneath his skin, a fury rages that he can’t articulate - and he knows Drautos pushed so hard to try and get Lyra and her people transferred from the Crownsguard under Cor’s command, to the Kingsglaive under his. Cor declined the request out of petty spite, at the time, but now he is glad he did so, in light of the revelations that came with his disappearance.

But he’s not worried about Lyra. The same way he’s not personally angry about Drautos. Concern and betrayal are far away things, because they get you killed, and Cor’s made it a brand promise of his, to never get killed.

He finds Ulric, at the end of the road, green and young and feral, and the haunted, broken look in his eyes as he clutches the child to him is a sharp reminder why Cor keeps his distance, always. That’s what betrayal will do to you, if you let it.

Cor considers killing him, right there and then, and he’s not sure it wouldn’t be a mercy, given the half-mad glint in his eyes.

But Cor considers killing a good many people he meets, on a daily basis. It comes with the ease of killing and the certainty he could get away with it, if he wanted. He is the Voice of the King, after all, anything he does and anything he commands, it is as if the King himself had done it. He is jury, judge and executioner, in Regis’ name. So Cor does not actually murder every idiot he meets, nor does he euthanize every sad story that wanders before him, because Regis wouldn’t.

Cor studies the boy - and the baby - and he’s not surprised, not really. Not about his story. Not about Drautos’ death. Not about Lyra’s. He’s rarely surprised by anything, these days.

It would be easier, he realizes, watching them sleep in a tiny ball curled up by the fire, if he killed them. It’d tie up all the loose ends. It’d weight on his conscience, but then, everything does and he’s been procrastinating thinking about it for more than a decade now.

It would be easier, yes, but in the end Cor puts his sword away and sets out to help, instead, because he’s never done things the easy way, before.


	45. year xix | the merry deadly family and their comfort food

* * *

 

_year xix | the merry deadly family and their comfort food_

* * *

 

It’s not unusual for any of them to be deployed, these days. The situation with the Empire is reaching critical levels and frankly, they’re all very good at what they do. Very, very good. Nyx tries not to think about it too much, because then he needs to get drunk to get through the rest of the day, and that’s just generally bad for morale.

Sometimes they’ll come home together, meeting up in the checkpoints around Leide: Cor with his fantastical scowl, Aranea with that twitch to her smirks that makes them deadly, Prompto with the awkward, wry smile after a job well done, and Nyx himself, panicking under the surface. It’s fucked up, in a tense, awkward way, that this is a routine now, and Nyx is keenly aware of it but also grateful because the alternatives he can think of, given the situation, are worse.

“You’re all so very stupid it hurts my head to try and think about,” Cid tells them, sitting on the steps at the back of the garage, overlooking the fields of Leide, passing along plates of thick stew that falls heavy and warm into their bellies.

“Ought to think more often, don’t you?” Aranea says, grinning cheekily when Cid puts a hand on the back of her head and shoves forward lightly, the same way he does to Cor whenever he says something Cid considers offensively stupid, which is often. “You’re out of practice.”

“Ought to kick you lot right the hell out,” Cid grumbles and then scowls when Prompto thanks him for the meal and beams up at him. “Honestly.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Cor mutters, and then snickers in the back of his throat, sharing a look with Aranea when he gets shoved for his troubles. “No one died.”

“No one we know anyway,” Prompto points out with a bit of a smirk, and deep in Nyx’s bones it hurts a little, because his son knows enough to make that kind of joke, and he never wanted him to learn in the first place.

“All routine, all around,” Nyx says instead, lips twitching as Cid grumbles and sits at his left, grunting. “So there’s that.”

“War’s not supposed to be a routine,” Cid points out, shaking his head. “That’s how you know you’re  _losing_ it.”

They laugh, because they’re supposed to. Because it’s what they do. Cid looks at them, all awkward, misshapen bits of them, and resolves to call Regis in the morning. He might actually remember to, this time around.


	46. year iv | Nyx managing to talk Cor into clubbing somehow but it turns out its a job of some kind, like he had to get someone arrested. Something like that.

* * *

_year iv | Nyx managing to talk Cor into clubbing somehow but it turns out its a job of some kind, like he had to get someone arrested. Something like that._

* * *

“Shit,” Cor says, and Nyx wouldn’t be able to hear him over the mad shrieking of the supposed music playing, if not for the fact his mouth is against his ear.

Nyx looks up and sees Cor’s face stuck in that one frown Nyx has learned is the closest to panicked the fabled Immortal ever gets. He blinks, shifting in his lap and suddenly ready to ruin someone’s day.

“…what?”

“We need to get out of here,” Cor says, mouth barely moving, his eyes fixed on something far behind Nyx.

“Why?” Nyx asks, because Cor isn’t moving yet, and he’s not entirely sure he knows how to handle Cor and panic, or even whatever could make Cor panic in the first place, considering the shit Cor’s into.

“Because I just saw Monica walk in,” Cor says, still sitting still as a statue.

Nyx stares down at him for a moment, until he remembers they’re not actually in a club or a bar or somewhere sensible, but an abandoned building scheduled for demolition, surrounded by a crowd of screaming people doing pretty much every possibly illegal thing imaginable. For fun.

Because Cor.

“Shit,” Nyx says, dropping his head on Cor’s shoulder. “Okay. Okay. Let’s play it cool.”

“Monica is not an idiot, Nyx,” Cor hisses at him, even as Nyx shifts around to sit on one of his thighs, his back pressed to Cor’s chest.

“Does Monica know you’re into shrieky rock, anonymous sex and dens of illegal drug use?” Nyx deadpans, tilting his head back on Cor’s shoulder while his eyes scan around the crowd, looking for Monica.

“No,” Cor hisses back, “of course not.”

“Then don’t give her a reason to find out,” Nyx grins when he sees her and waves, even as he feels Cor’s entire body twitch beneath him. “Prepare to bullshit like you’ve never bullshit before, Marshal.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Cor mutters, fingers digging into Nyx’s thigh as Monica weaves through the crowd, making her way to them.

“Cor, Nyx,” she says, when she’s close enough, expression a delicately terrifying frown. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Figured you could use some back up,” Nyx says, grinning easily, like he doesn’t have the imprint of Cor’s teeth fresh on the side of his throat. “Nasty crowd, this one, huh?”

Monica offers a small, relieved smile.

“Certainly,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m always glad to have extra hands around, though.”

Nyx makes up shit as he goes, from Monica’s status report and the steady pressure of Cor’s hand on his thigh. The actual arrest is a lot less complicated than it could have been, considering Nyx saunters over and picks a fight with the man Monica’s been trailing, and then goads him into heading out to duke it out. Poor sod’s face when he walks into a wall of Crownsguard soldiers is one of the highlights of Nyx’s night.

The other is the fact Cor fucks him up a wall in the empty building afterwards, sinking his teeth into his shoulder hard enough to tear skin, and Nyx laughs and comes and decides maybe it’s not so bad, indulging the worst of Cor’s bad habits, sometimes.

 

 


	47. year xviii | Prompto and Aranea chew over the implications of their dads being Lucian generals?

* * *

_year xviii | Prompto and Aranea chew over the implications of their dads being Lucian generals?_

* * *

 

“You ever think it’s weird?” Prompto asks, feet swinging as Aranea comes sit at the edge of the roof with him.

“What?” She asks, flopping down and stretching her limbs with a little groan, before reaching out to grab a cigarette.

It’s the unspoken thing, in the house. No one smokes, because it’s terrible for you. Except Cor comes home reeking of smoke and worse, sometimes, and Nyx smokes when he’s having a meltdown and pretending really hard he isn’t, and Prompto’s nineteen and trying to have a belated rebellious stage, while Aranea just likes to encourage terrible ideas, because that’s basically her whole deal. So no one smokes in the house, because they like to keep the pretense they don’t, and smoking on the roof doesn’t count, if you don’t acknowledge it’s happening, and so nothing said there has to really count, either, if you don’t want to.

“That our dads are our bosses?” Prompto muses with a little smirk, fiddling with the lighter the same way he fiddles with puzzle cubes and pens and knives.

Aranea is utterly unrepentant that she got him before Cor did, and taught him the nuances of butterfly knives. Prompto’s a fiddler, and at least that way he can look cool while stewing in anxiety.

“Bit late for second thoughts about that,” she snorts, one leg dangling off the edge, the other folded up as she watches the smoke raise up into the night sky. “Isn’t it?”

“Not second thoughts,” Prompto snaps, glaring a little, and she remembers belatedly that he’s tired of arguing about this. “I was filing paperwork this morning,” he says, snorting. “And it hit me, that Cor was gonna end up looking through it in the basement sometime next week.”

“It’s either Luche or Nyx, looking through my reports,” Aranea points out, shrugging. “So I don’t think about it, either way.”

“That’s still  _so_ fucked up,” Prompto laughs and ducks when she aims to smack him upside the head.

“Your  _face_ is fucked up.”

“But like,” Prompto goes on, after the prerequisite exchange of tongues stuck out in defiance. “They’re our dads. And also our bosses. And like, the bosses of everyone we know.”

“They’re generals,” Aranea points out, shrugging a little. “And we’re soldiers. So that’s how it goes.”

“I guess,” Prompto sighs. “It’s still weird.”

“Weird is your collection of on-the-job selfies,” she snorts, grinning when he laughs. “You should have seen the look on Nyx’s face when he saw the Veles one.”


	48. year xviii | that one gif from Mulan that's like "my little baby, off to destroy people" *wipes tear from eye*

* * *

_year xviii | that one gif from Mulan that's like "my little baby, off to destroy people" *wipes tear from eye*_

* * *

 

“I did not expect to see you here, Nyx,” Clarus says, arching an eyebrow as Nyx slouches into the observation deck with a grin.

“Are you kidding me?” Nyx replies, laughing easily, “I wouldn’t miss this one for the world.” He gives Clarus an amused look “Plus, I do have a legitimate reason to be here, besides the fact I’m looking forward to see my son kick some ass.”

“Do tell,” Clarus says, looking unconvinced.

“Saboteurs need escorts in the field, and those usually come from my people,” Nyx explains, still looking amused, “I need to see what kind of skill he’s working with, to figure out who’ll be going out with him.”

“Surely you already know this,” Clarus points out with an arched eyebrow.

“He doesn’t,” Cor mutters, looking over the grading sheet and making sure everything is in order before they start. “Neither of us trained him, for… obvious reasons. Monica handled almost all of it.”

“Huh,” Clarus muses, a bit surprised, but then, he’s been training Gladio since he was nine.

“We’re ready, sir,” Monica says as she walks into the room, looking sternly proud. She nods in greeting. “Lord Amicitia, Nyx.”

“Two runs as standard?” Cor asks, as she comes to stand near the control panel with him.

“First non-lethal, then lethal, yes,” Monica says, and then rolls her eyes. “Do remind him he’s testing for graduation, not to see if he can beat his mother’s time.”

Nyx laughs, and Cor cracks an acid snort. Clarus blinks, feeling, as he usually does, when dealing with Nyx and Cor, that he’s missing half the joke. He knows better than to ask anyway.

He figures out why they wouldn’t train the boy themselves fairly quickly, though, considering the incisive criticism on his run, which Clarus knows is at least three times longer than the standard testing and in his opinion, fairly spectacular already. But no one’s asking what he thinks about it, so he keeps it to himself.

The lethal run, though.

“Shit,” Nyx says, watching Prompto take down one of his targets with vicious glee, “our son’s an asshole.”

“He is,” Monica deadpans and dead-eyes them both, and Clarus doesn’t laugh, but only just, “in fact, the greatest asshole I’ve ever trained.” She stares down at them both. “He takes selfies.  _Selfies_. The only reason he’s not doing it right now, is because I told him I would have him doing community service off the side of the highway for thirty years if he dared.”

Needless to say, Prompto Argentum passes his graduation with flying colors. Then he insists on doing the runs again, when he’s still four seconds behind Lyra Argentum’s standing record.


	49. year xvii | Nyx talking about his tattoos to Cor?

* * *

_year xvii | Nyx talking about his tattoos to Cor?_

* * *

 

“It’s… it’s a map,” Nyx says, eyes closed as Cor thumbs the lines beneath his eye. “Only… not exactly? Every island has their own patterns, put in specific places, so you can tell at a glance who comes from where. Mine are small because they’re runner marks, and you want them to be subtle enough no one notices them unless they’re looking very closely. I was supposed to get the larger ones when I got prompted to actual fighting in the field, but. You know. There wasn’t much time for ceremony back then.”

Cor hums in the back of his throat and brushes his lips against Nyx’s ear, along the line painted there.

“So yeah,” Nyx laughs, “that’s the terrible secret. It’s not very exciting.” He takes the subtle invitation to snuggle further into Cor’s arms, pressing his back against Cor’s chest. “I thought about getting them when I got here, but there didn’t seem to be much of a point anymore.” He looks up, “what about you?”

Cor shrugs, stretching his left leg over Nyx’s, to show the shadow of the tattoo on the side of his ankle. It’s a small, but fairly detailed depiction of Lucis’ skull-and-eagle emblem, with CXIII written in the center of the wheel.

“We were in Galdin, about two weeks into the trip, and… Weskham said we should do something to commemorate the journey,” he says, and then snorts. “It seemed a good idea in theory, except for the bit Clarus already had his tattoo and that didn’t leave a lot of other places to put a new one. Cid suggested we get them on our ass, since we were gonna get it kicked for Regis’ sake for the rest of our lives.” Nyx laughs and Cor echoes it, burying his nose into his hair. “We reached a more… sensible agreement, in the end.”


	50. year xix | Aranea and Prompto teaming up to troll their parents.

* * *

_year xix | Aranea and Prompto teaming up to troll their parents._

* * *

 

“You know,” Nyx says, staring at his phone with a pinched expression on his face, “I’m pretty sure the worst most parents deal with are finding pictures of their kids humping random strangers in clubs.”

Cor, who was lying on the couch with Nyx lying on him, made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, and snorted as a new photo popped into their shared chat, this one depicting a selfie with Prompto in the foreground making an annoyed face, with Aranea dance-dipping Luche to avoid getting their heads taken out by an arba’s charge.

“You did tell him to keep in touch,” Cor muses, shaking his head.

“Not what I had in mind,” Nyx retorts and then snorts when the next selfie is of the three of them running away from a coeurl. “Actually.”

 


	51. year iv | tell me what Nyx does in the sun is out after a council meeting from hell

* * *

_year iv | tell me what Nyx does in the sun is out after a council meeting from hell_

* * *

 

Nyx walks into Cor’s office without knocking and makes a bee-line for the couch in the corner, where he faceplants without a care. He buries his face as far as he can, into the dark purple cushions, and lets out a high-pitched keening noise.

“That bad, huh,” Cor muses with a wry smirk in his tone, and Nyx’s only reply is another warbling noise of sheer boiling rage.

Cor continues working and Nyx continues screaming in small, controlled doses, until he’s all out of rage or his throat hurts too much, whichever happens first. When he’s done, he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling with a blank expression on his face.

“Tell me again why I accepted this job,” he demands, cracking the joints in his fingers by sharply clenching each finger, one at the time.

“Because you’re a self-sacrificing idiot with a hero complex the size of Ravatogh,” Cor replies indolently, and pushes his chair back to get enough room to kick over a large carton box that slides over in Nyx’s general direction over the shiny black floors.

“Right,” Nyx says, sighing loudly, as he sits up and then leans over to pull the box the rest of the way, until it’s resting between his feet.

“Wanna talk about it?” Cor asks, sitting back properly and picking up another report to read and sign.

“No,” Nyx growls in frustration, pulling out a sheet of paper form the box and methodically ripping it into tiny shreds with his bare hands.

He does anyway, ranting in a low, frustrated tone as he works his way through the classified papers Cor was supposed to shred before sending for disposal in the incinerators on the second basement of the Citadel. Cor’s perfectly serviceable shredder remains untouched in the corner behind his desk most of the time. Nyx rants about all the valid, sensible reasons why he loathes council meetings, but by the time he’s reaching the last quarter of the box, he’s just complaining about poor haircuts and horrid fashion choices.

He accompanies Cor to drop off the box - now filled with classified confetti - at the disposal desk, and even manages to be borderline personable to the clerk. Then Cor’s driving them out into the back alleys of the harbor district, to eat fried shrimp in a very small cart tucked away between two massive warehouses, and if someone asked Nyx to pinpoint it in a map, he’d have to stare blankly and probably cry. They sit on the trunk of the car with a small plastic tray of food each - Cor’s are honey glazed, because of course they are, while Nyx’s are dripping a red spicy sauce that makes his eyes water and his throat threaten to collapse - and drink fruit juice from those old, reusable glass bottles that can’t be found anywhere else. They could have beer, but somehow it doesn’t taste as good and honestly Nyx is too damn exhausted to ponder on the nuances of food-drink pairings at this point. He buys a cigarette off an old man with a tray of knickknacks while Cor gets rid of their trash. It doesn’t count as smoking if he doesn’t buy a carton, and despite their slow and steady efforts to grind out his sanity, council meetings still haven’t gotten him to break. Yet.

“I’m going to murder Mancipo,” Nyx says, blowing out a cloud of smoke above their heads.

“I’d sincerely appreciate it if you didn’t,” Cor replies, snorting and leaning back on the trunk of the car and Nyx’s side. “Because then I’d be in the unenviable position of having to arrest you for high treason.”

“I wouldn’t murder him much,” Nyx muses wryly, “just enough to drive the point home.”

“…which is?”

“That he’s a soggy, swollen ballsack with a personality to match,” Nyx retorts in a borderline cheerful tone. “Also, his face’s stupid.”

“Not disagreeing,” Cor says, rolling his eyes, “but still. Don’t murder the asshole.”

“Fine,” Nyx sighs dramatically, as if agreeing to a very hard bargain. “But you’re taking me home and you’re letting me suck your cock until I feel better.”

Cor snorts.

“It’s cute you think you’re getting your mouth anywhere near me after what you just ate.”

“It’s a ruse,” Nyx tells him, grinning at him. “See, now when I tell you that I guess I’m okay with you sucking my dick until I feel better, it sounds like I’m being magnanimous, even though fucking your throat was always the original plan.”

“Clearly, I’ve been outwitted,” Cor snorts, and pokes Nyx’s in the ribs when he tries to lean in for a kiss. “Seriously, Ulric, not going to happen.”

Nyx gives him an exaggerated pout.

“Rude.”

They do, eventually, go home, after Nyx is done smoking, and the impossible shithead refuses to kiss him properly until after he’s done washing his mouth. But, and this is the important bit, he does absolutely get to fuck Cor’s throat. Because he’s a tactical genius, clearly.


	52. year xii | Prompto getting his glasses

* * *

 

_year xii | Prompto getting his glasses_

* * *

 

“But I really don’t need them,” Prompto whines, bottom lip stuck out in a fantastic pout.

“Neither do I,” Cor tells him off the side of his mouth. “But you go convince your dad of that.”

Prompto giggles as Cor gives him a wry look, and okay… okay, maybe he can deal with this, if Cor’s gonna deal with it too. They even make one valiant escape attempt, before Nyx herds them back with a pointed, unamused glare. He’s not a baby. He can do this. All of twelve years old and ready to… to do what needs to be done. Yeah.

Cor offers to go first, when Prompto’s more than a little intimidated by the weird monster glasses metal thing they want him to sit behind. He’s only a little bit more relaxed, when it’s his turn.

“Holy shit,” Cor mutters as they walk out of the shop a week later, brand new glasses on their faces.

“What?” Nyx asks, looking around for anything that would merit that reaction.

“Trees have leaves,” Cor muses somewhat stupidly, blinking behind the lenses.

Prompto gives him a weird look.

“Of course trees…” He trails off. “Oh. Oh, shit. You’re  _right_.” He stares in wonder at the same tree Cor is currently transfixed by. “Like actual  _leaves_.”

Nyx pinches the bridge of his nose, but for the sake of peace does not, in fact, say anything else.


	53. year ii | Toddler!Prompto wandering around his home with a griffon plushie?

* * *

_year ii | Toddler!Prompto wandering around his home with a griffon plushie?_

* * *

 

Nyx doesn’t even remember who bought the damn thing in the first place. It was somewhere between Meldacio and Caem, and it had distracted Prompto when not even Nyx’s braids were enough to keep him happy. It’s a novelty gag gift of sorts, a stuffed version of the griffons that nest around Cleigne in the summer. Prompto loves it, though. Desperately. Viciously.

Consequently, the damn thing is perpetually falling to pieces, and needs to be stitched back together, over and over again, considering Prompto’s not particularly careful with it, tugging it along with stubborn determination as he roams around the apartment.

Nyx has tried to find a replacement. He really has. The internet has failed him utterly. It’s like the fucking thing doesn’t exist. Like some kind of ridiculous fever dream somehow materialized and became his son’s chosen comfort anchor. He’s tried to get him new toys, but while Prompto delights in everything they give him, he circles back to the battered, frankly pathetic griffon with the crooked wings and Nyx’s very poor attempts to sew its eyes back in place.

Nyx hears the tale tell sound of fabric ripping and stitches popping, swiftly followed, after a second of dead silence, by loud, blubbering crying. Cor sighs loudly, but Nyx waves a hand at him, heading over to attend to the disaster himself.

“Tell me it doesn’t get any worse than this,” Nyx says, walking back into the living room, sobbing Prompto in one arm, face tucked into his neck, and sad griffon carcass in the other. Cor stares at him for a moment, hesitant. “Lie if you have to, Marshal.”

The corner of Cor’s lip twitches.

“It absolutely does not get any worse than this,” he says solemnly, and after a moment of watching Nyx try to juggle Prompto, the griffon and himself, he raises his hands in a tacit invitation.

Nyx spills the crying boy into his arms and shakes his head when Prompto immediately goes from uncontrollable bawling to very put upon sulking, sucking on a thumb and trying his best to melt into Cor’s chest.

“Right,” Nyx snorts, and studies the damage with a critical eye. He flops the torn toy on the low table and goes hunting for a sewing kit in one of the many cavernous depths of Cor’s kitchen drawers, because Cor keeps basically everything in his kitchen drawers, and Nyx doesn’t have the heart to shuffle any of it around. “At the rate we’re going, I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just try to make him a new one all together,” he muses as he drops himself on the couch, giving Cor an amused look. “I mean, it has to be less sewing.”

“ _Can_ you?” Cor asks, somewhat dubiously, the asshole, and Nyx wrinkles his nose at him in reply.

“I can try,” Nyx says, rather than something rude, mostly because it’s hard to be rude at Cor when he’s got Prompto slowly falling asleep in his lap. “I mean, it can’t be that hard, right?”

Famous last words.


	54. year xvii | shit the immortal says

* * *

_year xvii | shit the immortal says_

* * *

 

“So,” Prompto begins, sitting on the counter and watching Cor go about making himself a sandwich. “Iris and I had an idea.”

Cor stops, closes his eyes and lets out a very slow, controlled breath that’s absolutely not a sigh.

“Did you, now.”

Prompto snickers shamelessly.

“It’s not that bad, honest,” he says, shrugging in the face of the unamused look Cor gives him. “We want to start a youtube channel.”

“A youtube channel,” Cor says, hopefully not sounding nearly as dreadful as he feels.

“Right,” Prompto nods, “nothing crazy! Nothing… nothing gross or anything. Objectionable.”

“Right,” Cor deadpans, still looking suspicious. “And you’re telling me this, and not Nyx because…?”

“Oh, I already told dad,” Prompto grins, waving a hand dismissively. “He said it was okay so long as you were okay with it.”

That, somehow, does not make Cor feel any better about this.

“See,” Prompto begins, “the thing is, we were wondering if you’d be up to help with it.”

Cor doesn’t get it. Not really. But three month later,  _Shit The Immortal Says_  is often on the front page, mostly because the guy doing the Immortal’s impression is really good. Like. Scarily good. They’ve even got an office for him to read the comments out loud in some kind of soulless deadpan that hasn’t cracked despite the audience best attempts..

You’d almost think he was the real deal. 


	55. year xx | someone who sleeps deeply gets things stacked on top of them

* * *

 

_year xx | someone who sleeps deeply gets things stacked on top of them_

* * *

 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Prompto,” Luna says, watching him try to tiptoe around Ravus’ sleeping, if still terribly imposing figure. “You can probably go sit on him and he won’t wake up. It’s fine.”

“Oh,” Prompto replies, still eyeing Ravus somewhat warily, because Ravus doesn’t like him very much and has never made a secret of this. “I mean, if you say so.”

Luna closes the book in her hands and summarily places it on her brother’s head, all the while keeping her eyes on Prompto.

Ravus goes on snoring under his breath.

“See?” She says, one eyebrow arched, “gone entirely, the poor dear.”

…Ravus doesn’t like him much more, when he wakes up some four hours later, with Prompto kneeling on his knees, trying to reach atop the pile of books and soda cans balanced on his head, to place a plate.

“Uh,” Prompto says, as soon as dark blue eyes blink away and narrow instantly upon recognition. “Hi.”


	56. year xiv | clarus gets some love and appreciation

* * *

 

_year xiv | clarus gets some love and appreciation_

* * *

 

Clarus watches Anemone bend down gracefully to offer her hands to Iris and Prompto, and smiles. The smile widens as he watches his daughter approach the chocobos slowly, almost warily, her tiny hands extended, and then she squeals in delight when beaks come in to take her offerings. Prompto’s laughing, too, telling her things he can’t hear but he can guess are encouragement. 

Nyx puts a beer on the table, next to Clarus’ elbow, and grins at him as he goes to sit next to him.

“Relax, Lord Amicitia,” Nyx says, saluting him with his own beer. “You’re on vacation.”

“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Clarus replies, shaking his head before he accepts the drink.

“I’m a tactical genius,” Nyx says, without an ounce of modesty or restraint, “obviously.”

“Obviously,” Clarus snorts, and watches the younger man for a moment, before taking a swing of his beer. “Where’s your daughter?”

Nyx grins.

“Took your son to watch spiracorns down the meadow,” he explains and then pulls Clarus down to his seat when he tries to stand up again. “Relax, Clarus.”

“Spiracorns are dangerous,” he says, frowning, “what if-”

“Aranea can clear out the herd singlehandedly if she needs to,” Nyx replies, without a hint of doubt in his voice, “but I told her that’d upset Gladio, so she’ll keep him far away enough she doesn’t have to engage.” He smiles. “Trust me, they’re fine.”

Clarus frowns for a moment, and then very consciously relaxes.

“I do,” he says, allowing himself a sigh. He gives Nyx a thoughtful look. “I really do, you know.”

“I know,” Nyx grins. “I’m insufferably smug about it.”


	57. year xii | Prompto and Aranea baking a cake together

* * *

 

_year xii | Prompto and Aranea baking a cake together_

* * *

 

They were tactical about it. Aranea’s usual cooking technique of throwing good stuff in together and hoping the goodness multiplied by the time it was done cooking was not going to work, for baking. So they treated it like a mission, instead. Well, Aranea did, Prompto just followed along with a grin.

They got a recipe - which was an ordeal and a half, trying to narrow it down properly - and they smuggled their supplies as best they could. The hardest part was getting their parents out of the house long enough to get it done, but they managed to convince them to take the weekend off. They tried very hard not to think what they’d be doing with the free time, either, because that was not conductive to baking or not dying of embarrassment.

They played cards, waiting for the first attempt to come out of the oven.

It’s… not ideal.

“I mean,” Prompto says, chewing on a bit of blackened crust, “it tastes good. It just…”

“Looks like shit,” Aranea agrees, snorting. “I mean, of course it tastes good, that much sugar can’t taste anything  _but_ good.”

“So, do we google why we fucked up, or do you want another try?”

“Google,” Aranea says after a moment, shuddering. “We’re gonna end up with an army of fucked up cakes otherwise and I’d like to get it right sometime  _before_  next year.”

They end up falling into a youtube pit for six hours, which ends with a two hour cake decorating documentary. They’re still not sure if the problem was the oven was too hot or they used too many eggs. They try again, anyway, because forty is a pretty looming number and someone ought to remind Cor of the fact.


	58. year xx | Noctis gets toaded and his friends don't miss the chance to make a frog prince joke

* * *

_year xx | Noctis gets toaded and his friends don't miss the chance to make a frog prince joke_

* * *

 

“I mean, you  _have_ to,” Prompto says, trying to hold back a laugh, while he holds the squirming frog in his hands.

“She bloody well doesn’t!” Ravus snarls, glowering at their laughter, fingers clenching on his sword.

“C’mon, Ravus,” Gladio says, grinning, “it’s traditional.”

“Now, now,” Ignis interrupts, gauging the glint in Ravus’ eye to be frankly homicidal, “it’s merely a jest-”

“I’ll do it,” Luna interrupts, eyes dancing with mischief, “on the condition no one ever, ever lets him live this down.”

“Sister-”

“Puns?” Prompto asks, perking up immediately.

“I expect your worst,” Luna grins, stretching her hands to take on the frog currently, desperately croaking and trying to escape.


	59. year ii | smol Prom has a nightmare

* * *

 

_year ii | smol Prom has a nightmare_

* * *

 

There’s a split second of confusion, when he wakes up. It’s always there, no matter how hard he trains, how strong he becomes. There’s always a split second of not knowing where he is, what he’s doing, what needs to be done, but then the world settles back in place. Cor blinks into the darkness of the room and recognizes the sound of Prompto wailing miserably in the guest room - in his room, it’s very ridiculous to even hold onto pretenses anymore - and Cor runs a hand over his hair before he sets out to find what’s happened.

He finds the boy sitting in bed, covers all around him, crying loudly as he tilts his head back to let his scream echo properly.

“Hey,” Cor says, voice quiet as he approaches slowly, carefully. “Prompto.”

The boy stops only long enough to take a good look at him, and then Cor has to swoop in to grab him, before he falls off the bed when he lunges at him, burying another miserable wail into his belly. Cor tries to fix the hold, pulling him up, but tiny stubborn hands hold onto his shirt and tug it along as he does. He’s quite sure he must look ridiculous, at the moment, but then, he doesn’t exactly mind. It’s not like there’s anyone there to see anyway.

Cor doesn’t tell him to stop crying, either. He doesn’t have to. Prompto quiets down on his own, burying his face into the crook of his neck, until the bawling is only a few hiccuping sniffles, here and there. It’s a bit of an art form, warming up milk one handed, but he’s watched Nyx go through the motions enough times at this point. He makes one attempt to sit Prompto on the counter, so he can drink, but tiny fingers dig into his shirt like claws, with the same tenacity they usually hold onto Nyx’s braids, and Cor knows better than to try again. The boy drinks slowly, carefully, but the warmth sits nicely in him, leaving him drowsy, and the pinch of sugar Cor mixed into it makes him more likely to finish the whole thing.

He drops the empty cup in the sink to be dealt with in the morning - still a few hours away, at least - and pads quietly back to the guest room. There’s a moment of indecision, while he stands in the doorway, Prompto’s slowing breathing echoing against his neck, before he goes back to his own room, pulling the boy to sleep with him.

Less hassle that way, that’s all.


	60. year xviii | Gladio and Prompto dated in the Sun is out verse, can we get some warm snuggles between those two?

* * *

 

_year xviii | Gladio and Prompto dated in the Sun is out verse, can we get some warm snuggles between those two?_

* * *

 

“So,” Gladio asks, chin resting atop Prompto’s head and arms loosely wrapped around his waist. “What exactly are you trying to do?”

“Not. Die.” Prompto mutters through gritted teeth as his bright and colorful avatar dies to the tune of a mocking refrain.

“Ah,” Gladio muses, resisting the urge to laugh as Prompto groans and snuggles further into his lap. “I can see the key word is try.”

“Moral support, Gladio,” Prompto sighs, choosing to restart the game again, “key word being  _support_.”

Gladio grins and leans forward, pressing his bulk against Prompto’s back until he bows forward a little. Prompto snorts and squirms, but Gladio holds him in place easily.

“Better?”

“Now you’re just being distracting,” Prompto says, actually pouting at him. “So not cool, dude. Not cool at all.” Gladio arches an eyebrow tauntingly and Prompto breaks first, laughing and reaching up to press his lips against the corner of his mouth. “Okay, so maybe a little cool. Just a little, though, wouldn’t want it to go to your head.”

“You’d rather it went elsewhere?” Gladio asks, wiggling his eyebrows tauntingly.

Prompto maintains eye contact as he pauses the game and drops the controller on the low table.

“…I mean, when you put it like that…”


	61. year ii | The Glaives cooing over baby!Prompto some time once they get over the 'why the hell do you have a kid, Nyx' reaction?

* * *

 

_year ii | The Glaives cooing over baby!Prompto some time once they get over the 'why the hell do you have a kid, Nyx' reaction?_

* * *

 

“Oh no,” Crowe says, quiet and full of despair, “no, fuck, Nyx, that’s so  _cute_.”

“I know,” Nyx muses wryly, watching the boy quietly napping in the carpet, face buried into the ugliest motherfucking stuffed griffon in the world.

“I need to punch something, someone, shit,” Crowe whines, as Prompto sucks on a thumb and surrenders to sleep entirely.

“Yeah,” Nyx laughs quietly, pushing himself off the couch to go collect his son, because as cute as he looks sprawled on the floor, he should probably not sleep there for long. “He can be cuter, though, if you can believe it,” he adds, and then makes soft, soothing noises at Prompto, as he settles him to sleep with his head pillowed on his shoulder.

“Shut the fuck up,” Crowe snorts, but she’s quieter, clearly not wanting to disturb the boy, “that’s illegal.”

“I have pictures,” Nyx insists, as he sits back on the couch, and settles Prompto in place, one tiny hand reaching out to grab a braid on reflex, even in sleep. Nyx snorts, and digs out his phone from his pocket. “You could say I needed to… immortalize the moment.”

Crowe gives him a stern look for the pun, but then he manages to pull out the right picture… set of pictures, and she’s too distracted to punch him for the audacity.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Crowe insists, as Nyx passes her the phone and sits back to watch her whine and make tiny, wounded noises over every shot he’s got of Prompto falling asleep on Cor.


	62. year xx | clarus comments on cor and nyx adopting loqi

* * *

 

_year xx | clarus comments on cor and nyx adopting loqi_

* * *

 

Clarus is too old for this shit.

They’re all too old for this shit, really.

Still, Nyx and Cor stand before him with that same indifferent expression that tells Clarus they’re perfectly aware of the ridiculousness they’ve done, and that they don’t particularly care for his opinion on the matter. And standing between them, cowed and nervous and small, a fifteen year old boy with blond hair and blue eyes and the most haunted, traumatized look  on his face Clarus has seen since the days of the first war.

“You’re the best I have,” he says, because they are. “You’re the strongest, most powerful fighters I have. You do alone what I’d need to assign entire platoons to do.  _You’re the best I have_ ,” he insists, and then pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, “but now I have to legitimately reconsider sending you out, because I need you to  _fight_ the Empire, not conquer it by adopting its forces, one child at the time.”

“I’m not a child,” the boy snaps, swallowing hard and trying to puff up, like a small bird trying to double its bulk with sheer fluff alone. “I’m-”

“Shut up, Loqi,” both Nyx and Cor say, in that same sharp, pointed way they do, when they’re disciplining their children.

Their  _other_ children.

The boy, Loqi, shrinks somewhat and falls silent.

Clarus needs a drink. Then they tell him why, exactly, they’ve chosen to not treat the boy as a prisoner in the first place, in explicit, horrifying detail. Clarus needs a lot of drinks, after that.


	63. year xx | can I get a tiny glimpse of happiness, or at least some tiny bit of reprieve or hope or SOMETHING other than bleak despair and hatred for Ravus?

* * *

 

_year xx | can I get a tiny glimpse of happiness, or at least some tiny bit of reprieve or hope or SOMETHING other than bleak despair and hatred for Ravus?_

* * *

 

 ****Ravus likes animals a lot more than he likes people. Then again, animals are innocent and straightforward. They’re driven by instincts, not greed or pettiness or spite. One can always trust animals to be… well, animals.

Umbra and Pryna are not, strictly speaking, animals anymore, but they used to be and they still have the ghost of it present enough that Ravus will find himself sitting at the edge of the haven, early in the morning, and find his fingers sinking into fur without a second thought. Umbra turns on his back, always, inviting Ravus to scratch along his ribs, while Pryna rests her head on his thigh and whines until he curls his fingers behind her ears.

The world is quiet, this early, before the rest of his companions wake up and make a racket as they’re used to. Ravus enjoys the quiet - he enjoys the racket, too, a little, though he’d never admit it, because the racket means they’re alive and sane and whole, and he’s glad for it, he really is - basking in the first rays of sunlight, and the warmth of the dogs at his side.

The world always seems worth saving, in the early morning light.


	64. year xx | Ravus meets the parents in Sun is Out?

* * *

 

_year xx | Ravus meets the parents in Sun is Out?_

* * *

 

“Well,” Luna says, staring at the massive behemoth rampaging straight towards them, “ _shit_.”

It’s really unfair, Ravus thinks, that the world is so very determined to hate them all. They just finished Deadeye, perhaps a week ago, and they had all agreed that maybe Prompto’s insistence that behemoths were the worst fucking thing had more than a few grams of truth to it. It took all six of them to take the damn thing down, and they’d all firmly decided that if they never had to fight another one of those ever again, it would be too soon.

This one looks bigger, still.

“Right,” Noctis says, cracking his knuckles. “I guess we best get to it.”

Except they don’t, because there’s a flash of blue light and a spray of blood off its neck, and then another strike to its side, and the beast stumbles and rolls as it falls, and it comes to a thunderous stop at the base of the hill, dead.

They turn to look at Noctis, who’s still standing right next to them, and very clearly did not just two-shot a behemoth before their eyes. Then Prompto snorts and sticks to fingers into his mouth, whistling a loud, sharp note that echoes. Ravus sees a knife come flying in their general direction a moment later, and then Nyx Ulric is there, holding it loosely as he warps into a step and keeps walking towards them at a leisure stroll.

“Hey,” he says, in that same casual, easy tone of his that Ravus remembers he’s always used around his mother. “Fancy meeting you lot here. Having fun?”

There’s a very awkward silence, as they try to collect their thoughts. At least Ravus is trying to collect his thoughts.

“Hi, dad,” Prompto says, grinning easily, and all of Ravus’ carefully collected thoughts scattered all at once.

Oh, he thinks, watching Nyx Ulric ruffle Prompto’s hair affectionately.

Oh, I am an idiot.

Truth isn’t always comforting, despite what his mother and his sister like to say.


	65. year x | something about otters? because otters are great

* * *

 

_year x | something about otters? because otters are great_

* * *

 

“Are you  _crying_?” Harit demands, staring at Prompto with a weird look on his face.

“Shut up!” Prompto whines, face buried in his hands, “they’re so cute!”

“But  _why_ are you crying?” Harit insists, baffled beyond words as his friend sniffles loudly.

“Because he’s so tiny and fluffy and he’s trying his best!”

On the screen, the tiny, baby otter made loud, crying noises as its mother had fluffed it out so much it couldn’t sink and start swimming.


	66. year x | it’s mentioned at one point that Sylva is Nyx’s proxy on the council- how does that go down?

* * *

 

_year x | it’s mentioned at one point that Sylva is Nyx’s proxy on the council- how does that go down?_

* * *

 

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Ulric’s word that he has a proxy already set up for this. Of course he trusts his commander officer. Most of the time. In the field. Definitely more often than not.

Luche finds himself standing outside the council room, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, because this might be the one thing he’s not sure he wants to do. And if Ulric’s proxy doesn’t show, he’s going to have to do it anyway.

The far door of the hallway outside the council room opens slowly and ominously. It’s the door that leads to the highest levels of the Citadel, where the King and the Prince dwell. Luche stands to attention as the Oracle and Queen of Tenebrae walks out, followed by an escort of sixteen Crownsguards. She’s tall and blond and seems to glow, dressed in a white gown that couldn’t contrast more with the Lucian black around her. Luche basks in the sight, somewhat. He knows Ulric serves as personal escort to the Oracle, when she travels beyond the Wall, and that Libertus and Crowe have been tasked with the job in Nyx’s absence. Luche isn’t bitter, not really. He’s never really liked royalty and he suspects royalty wouldn’t like him much either. But still.

Then he realizes that the Oracle is heading towards him, her steps confident and self-assured, and as she smiles at him, when she catches his eye, he gets a very sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Captain Lazarus, is it?” She asks, coming to stand right before him, and Luche doesn’t know where to look, that isn’t white or silver or glow-y. “Nyx has so many nice things to say about you.”

“He does?” Luche blurts out, surprised, and then flushes to the tips of his hair, dropping his eyes to the floor. “I mean. Thank you, your… grace. Your highness! Thank you.”

“Oh, dispense with that,” the Oracle says, and she puts a hand on his shoulder, patting it like… like Tredd does, when he’s commiserating with him about something. “There’ll be no shortage of pomposity today, as it is.” She smiles. Luche thinks he might legitimately puke. “Shall we?”

Luche follows without thinking and when he realizes what he’s done, it’s far too late to turn back and run. On the upside, he doesn’t miss the profound silence in the room as Sylva makes her way to stand in the small, round platform before the long table where Lucis’ most powerful Lords and Ladies sit. Luche wonders how the hell Nyx manages to stand there four hours every two weeks, and not scream, considering the whole thing seems to be designed to belittle and humble whoever stands before the council.

It’s very hard to belittle the Oracle though, more so when a very composed man from her Crownsguard escort steps up to announce her properly.

“Her Serene Holiness, Sylva VII,” he says, staring straight ahead with military tenacity, unperturbed by the silence or the awkward staring or the fact Luche himself thinks he’s going to keel over and die any moment now, “by Grace of the Astrals, Oracle of Light and Defender of the Dawn, Queen of Tenebrae, Queen of Piztala, Queen of Ulwaat, Archduchess of Jubar, Lady of Fenestrala Mannor and Inheritor of the Nox Fleuret Covenant.” He pauses a moment. “Standing today before my Lord and Ladies in name of Nyx Ulric, General Commander of the Kingsglaive, by grace of His Royal Highness, King Regis.”

Luche is inwardly very glad he didn’t feel the need to list off the titles that the King has, because then they’d be there all day.

“My Lords, my Ladies,” Sylva begins, smiling benignly at them all, “I would loathe to take your precious time. Shall we?”

Luche is going to kill Ulric.


	67. year xv | Monica is never going to live this one down

* * *

 

_year xv | Monica is never going to live this one down_

* * *

 

“So,” Nyx begins, looking at Cor with a slight frown, “hypothetically speaking…” Cor sits up with his back against the headboard, expression eminently unamused. Nyx smiles wryly. “How mad would you be, if, let’s say, Crowe and Aranea got Monica killed?”

“ _What_ ,” Cor deadpans, though his eyes widen slightly, betraying the fact he’s actually concerned.

“So that was Amira,” Nyx goes on, shaking his phone slightly for emphasis, “who tells me that Crowe had the brilliant idea to get Monica and herself drunk, because-”

“Today’s Monica’s birthday, yes,” Cor interrupts, frowning. He steals a look at the clock on the nightstand. “Well, yesterday, anyway.”

“Right,” Nyx agrees, smile wry, “so Crowe figured the best way to get Monica drunk would be with the fruity booze Amira makes.”

Cor stills.

“Amira’s booze can legitimately peel paint off walls,” he says, quietly.

Very quietly.

Nyx nods.

“It does. And of course Nea tagged along, because when has Crowe had a terrible idea that Nea didn’t immediately decide to help with, right?”

“I feel you’re winding me up for a punchline, and the punchline will be that I’ll punch you, if Monica is legitimately hurt, Nyx.”

Nyx winces.

“She’s… not.”

Cor’s eyes narrow.

“ _Nyx_.”

“I just don’t know where she is,” Nyx says. “Any of them, really. Amira sounded three quarters to gone, and apparently Monica asked about warping and of course Crowe and Nea had to show her.”

“Go get the car running,” Cor says, rubbing his face with his hands, “I’ll call Regis.”

“I’m gonna regret asking,” Nyx replies, sliding off bed and putting up some pants while Cor does the same, “but why are you going to call the King?”

“Because it’s three in the morning,” Cor deadpans, staring at his phone with a scowl, “and I’m not in the mood to search the city for them. Regis can pinpoint them in a map.”

Nyx blinks.

“He can?”

“Car,” Cor says instead, and pulls the phone to his ear.

Nyx sighs and goes.

* * *

Any doubts Nyx has about the King’s ability to actually find them vanish when they pull over and find Amira sitting on the sidewalk.

“Oh,” she says, blinking at them, “you actually made it.”

“Hi, Amira,” Nyx says, because it’s polite.

“Where are they?” Cor demands, because it’s three in the fucking morning, it’s ball-freezingly cold and he’s very close to actually being concerned.

Amira says nothing and merely points up.

* * *

“I need your camera,” Cor tells Prompto.

Prompto stares at him through bleary eyes and points vaguely in the direction of his desk.

“Thanks,” Cor says, then pauses. “Go to back to sleep.”

Prompto rolls over and does exactly that.

* * *

“You’re never gonna let this go, are you,” Nyx says, not asks, because it’s not really a question.

“Seventy-two floors,” Cor replies, staring at him in the eye. “That’s a seven followed by a two.”

“I know, I warped you up all seventy-two of them,” Nyx snorts, shaking his head and coming to sit with him on the steps leading to the garden, so they can continue to watch their impromptu guests play a very, very strange game of cards, while they sit on the dew-covered grass and laugh loudly about nothing in particular. “So that’s a no.”

Well, it’s mostly Amira and Monica playing, anyway. Crowe is passed out and Aranea is paying as much attention to braiding Crowe’s hair into a massive knot, as she is to the game.

“The first time I met Monica,” Cor explains in the grave tones of one sharing a deep, dark secret, “I was hungover.” He pauses. “I was  _extremely_ hungover. She’s never forgiven me for that.”

Nyx snorts.

“I think I’m going to bed,” he says, shaking his head. “Since one of us should be functional in the morning.”

“I think morning starts in twenty minutes,” Cor points out rather unhelpfully.

“And that’s twenty minutes of sleep I’ll be willing to murder for, in a couple hours.”

* * *

It’s not, on the whole, a terribly miserable day.

Well, okay, it is, but clearly Crowe and Aranea are having a worse one, and Nyx is petty enough to feel better because of it. He gets to nap during lunch anyway, and that carries him through the day.

It almost carries him through Pelna’s squinty, unamused looks, as if he’s trying to figure out how much of the prior night’s mess he can comfortably blame Nyx for.

He runs into Monica when he ventures into Cor’s office to see how miserable  _he_ is.

She looks… almost fine. Mostly.

“Why are you here?” Nyx asks anyway, before he can stop himself. “I left you passed out on the couch for a reason.”

Monica gives him a long, blank look.

And then she  _laughs_.

“Have you ever seen Cor hungover, Nyx?” 

Nyx thinks about it for a moment, actually thinks, and is very disturbed by the answer, considering the fact he knows exactly how much Cor can drink when he puts his mind to it, or when the King and his Shield gang up on him for any reason.

“…not really,” Nyx replies, frowning. “I’ve seen him  _drunk_ , sure, but not… not hungover, no.”

Monica gives a magnanimous nod.

“Who do you think  _taught_ him that?”

“Ah,” Nyx says, and then mentally moves Monica forty-eight solid steps up his mental ranking of people he should  _probably_ just flat out avoid pissing off, just on principle.

He’s smart enough not to comment, when the four of them start meeting regularly, too. Even if he never gets called in again. 

Cor gives him a knowing look and a well-resigned shrug.


	68. year xviii | someone says "the only good nilf is a dead nilf," and which hits Prompto pretty wrong

* * *

 

_year xviii | someone says "the only good nilf is a dead nilf," and which hits Prompto pretty wrong_

* * *

 

Prompto lowered the gun and took off the mufflers to squint as he pulled the target sheet closer to him.

“That bad, huh.”

He blinked a bit, startled, and realized Cor was standing behind him before he threw the first punch. He’d been jumpy lately, it was… it was a bit ridiculous to be honest.

“It’s not…” he began, and then sighed. “Yeah, it was.”

Cor made a soft, humming noise in the back of his throat.

“He’s not… wrong, you know,” Prompto went on, after a moment. “In general. I mean, I… I understand the sentiment.”

Cor gave him a dry look, and then stared very pointedly at the target sheet.

Prompto laughed.

“Okay, I think it’s a fucking stupid sentiment and I wanted to kick his teeth in.” He shrugged. “Better?”

“More honest anyway,” Cor murmured wryly.

“It wouldn’t have done any good,” Prompto said after a moment, quietly dismantling the gun. “Kicking his teeth in, I mean. Would have felt like shit about it, afterwards.”

“Maybe,” Cor agreed quietly, and then sighed. “Lunch?”

“I’d like that, yes,” Prompto replied, offering a small smile. It faded as he frowned, looking up at Cor. “Is it wrong? That it pissed me off? I’m not… I’m not really a Nilf. Not in… not in a way that matters. I don’t… I don’t even know where I came from or anything. It just. It pissed me off, the same way it pisses me off when someone says things about Galahd or my braids and just. Am I being dumb about this?”

“No,” Cor said, firmly enough to make Prompto smile a little again. “But I do commend your restraint.”

“It’s not restraint,” Prompto snorted, ducking under Cor’s arm to grin up at him. “It’s the memory of Dad’s I’m Disappoint face.”

“…don’t you mean disappointed?” Cor snorted, one eyebrow arched as Prompto did his best to match his stride.

“If I have to explain the meme, the meme is no longer funny,” Prompto told him, with the air of an expert on the matter.

Cor snorted.

“Disappoint it is, then.”


	69. year i | lullabies

* * *

 

_year i | lullabies_

* * *

 

“He’s going to be silly about this, isn’t he?” Aulea asks Cor, lying on her side as long as she is and watching her son bang wooden cubes on the carpet.

Cor considers his answer for a moment, before he folds himself to sit on the floor next to her.

“Undoubtedly,” he says at long last, lips twitching as the small Prince sets up a nice stack of blocks, and then topples them off with a fiendish giggle. His expression sobers up quickly enough. “I… will be leaving, soon. Lyra’s been gone too long now.”

“I won’t be here when you come back, then,” Aulea says, and it’s… it’s straightforward, because it’s a fact.

Cor has always liked that about the Queen. She’s not resigned, but she’s also keenly aware of everything. It’s a hard balance to maintain, that. He admires her for it, even.

“Probably not,” he says. “Regis… is not going to take it well.”

“Regis does not take  _anything_ well,” Aulea pointed out with a small snort that morphed into a cough. She raised a hand to keep Cor away, as the fit passed. “He’ll survive it, though. They all will. It will be fine.”

The young Prince crawled towards his mother, making small, bubbling noises and Aulea smiled, reaching an arm to cradle him close to her, humming in the back of his head.

“I’ll look after them,” Cor says, hands folded over his ankles, and watches her hum a few bars from a very old song.

“Don’t make it a duty on my behalf, Cor,” Aulea replies, blue eyes looking right through him. “Do it because you want to, not because you think you must.”

“I’ll try,” he says, after a long moment, and then sits back to listen to her sing her son to sleep.

She can’t sing for long anymore, but her voice’s still beautiful. He wonders, with a morbid sort of curiosity, who will sing lullabies to the young Prince, once his mother’s gone.


	70. year xvii | can we get the adults (Nyx, Cor, Regis and Clarus) teaming up to mess with their children?

* * *

 

_year xvii | can we get the adults (Nyx, Cor, Regis and Clarus) teaming up to mess with their children?_

* * *

 

“This is going to end up in disaster,” Cor told no one in particular, sitting back on the (poor) imitation leather couch and surveying the going-ons with an almost despondently resigned look no his face.

“C’mon, dad,” Prompto laughed, dropping to sit by his side, “it can’t be that bad.”

Cor gave Prompto a very long, very pointed, very deadpan look.

Prompto, because he was Prompto, laughed and scurried to the opposite couch, to sit between the Prince and his Adviser, while the Prince’s Shield shared what one could only assume was meant to be a bonding moment, by taunting the King’s Shield. Nyx came to sit on Cor’s left, just as the King sat at his right.

Cor had one of those near-premonitions of his, like a sixth sense of terrible things to come.

“Alright, everyone,” Clarus said with entirely too much enthusiasm for Cor to stomach this early in the day, “best of luck and do your best!”

A few hours later, Cor sat on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, watching the firefighters put out the last of the fire on the erstwhile bowling alley, and Prompto came to sit next to him, after seeing the Prince off along with the King’s entire entourage. Cor considered himself a good friend because he didn’t force neither Clarus nor Regis to withstand his unamused look any longer than required.

“Why do I keep not listening to you?” Prompto snorted, burying his face in his hands. “You’re always right.”

“Because you’re sixteen,” Cor deadpanned as he offered an almost philosophical shrug, “it’s your job to not listen to me.”

“Rude,” Nyx snorted, in an eerily similar tone to Prompto’s, as he dropped himself to the ground on Cor’s other side, “I thought that was my job.”

Cor smirked.

“No, your job is to set up the punchlines.”


	71. year xvii | what's the best thing anyone has asked the obviously fake Cor to say on the youtube channel?

* * *

 

_year xvii | what's the best thing anyone has asked the obviously fake Cor to say on the youtube channel?_

* * *

 

“This is a book,” Cor says, staring at the camera somewhat blankly. “I’m not going to read you a  _book_.”

“It’s a really good book!” Prompto says, grinning.

“Really,” Cor deadpans, expression quickly turning unamused.

Prompto snorts.

“No,” he says, snickering, “no, it’s not.”

“I’m not going to read you a terrible book,” Cor says, arching an eyebrow, “if nothing else because I have actual things to do.” He pauses significantly, and then adds, still with a straight face: “Marshal-y things.”

Prompto manages, somehow, not to break down laughing. Iris hates it when he laughs and she has to clear it up in post. The least work she has to do, the better.

“It’s the most requested thing, sir,” he says, in his best serious yet hopeful tone. “…but maybe you could do… select highlights?”

“Fine,” Cor says, sighing in resignation, and passes the book along to Iris, who is out of frame, and exchanges it for a handful of pages. Cor looks down to read the first line and immediately looks up to glare at the camera. “This is the most requested thing.”

“Yes, sir.” Prompto bites his lip during the pause, to try and hold back a cackle, but the anticipation is killing him. “By a landslide.”

“Every single line on this page begins with  _my inner goddess_ ,” Cor deadpans, and Prompto catches Iris stuffing a fist into her mouth to hold back her own cackling, which is no less bothersome to clean up in post. Cor goes on, relentless. “I do not have a goddess, inner or otherwise.”

“Everything else in the requested lines list from it was straight up porn, sir,” Prompto explains, voice only cracking a little, “but we do have standards.”

“This is a thing that was actually published,” Cor snarks, frowning.

“It’s the top best seller of this year, sir.”

Cor stares, right at the camera.

“And scene!” Prompto calls, after perhaps a minute.

“ _My inner goddess is doing a triple axel dismount off the uneven bars, and abruptly my mouth is dry_ ,” Cor deadpans, reading off the papers Iris gave him. Iris gives up and slides down the floor, burying desperate cackling into her hands. “Fuck me, I’m actually not sure I can do this sober.”

“I mean,” Prompto giggles, trying not to choke, “we can do multiple cuts.”

Cor gives him a long look before he snorts.

“Let me rephrase that, there’s no way I’m going to do this  _sober_.”

 


	72. year vii | knife collection

* * *

 

_year vii | knife collection_

* * *

 

“But I don’t need them,” Ignis says, frowning at the case as his fingers twitch with, Sylvia guesses, the urge to touch it.

“But you wanted them,” she replies, eyebrows arched.

Ignis’ frown deepens.

“Undoubtedly,” he admits after a moment, but still does not give into the temptation to run his hand along the case. “But want and need are not and should not be treated the same.”

“You’ve been talking with Tellus again,” Sylvia says sharply, then sighs, coming to sit next to him. “While it’s true that you should understand the difference between wanting something and truly needing it, for the sake of priorities, your uncle lacks a basic understanding of your functions, my dear.”

“I don’t understand,” Ignis replies, folding his arms on the counter to give up temptation.

“You will give your life for the King you’ll serve, won’t you, Ignis?” Sylvia pointed out, and smiled as the boy nodded without hesitation. “So then, this is what your uncle does not understand, anything you want is something you need, in your situation. You’re entitled to it.”

“But-”

“Don’t argue with me, darling, you know it never ends well,” Sylvia says, giving him one of those rare smiles of hers that lets him know he’s done something to please his mentor. Ignis risks a small laugh at that, that Sylvia echoes easily. “Now, tell me what you’ve got there and why you wanted them.”

Given license to talk freely like that, Ignis can’t help but detail exactly every single thing that’s good about his new knife set. Sylvia doesn’t even comment on his ever growing collection. She doesn’t have to.

She will, nonetheless, have words with Tellus Scientia.

Very pointed, very final words. She loathes having to repeat herself.


	73. year -iii | The first time Luche stood up to his mother?

* * *

 

_year -iii | The first time Luche stood up to his mother?_

* * *

 

“I don’t like him,” his mother says, before the door has finished closing properly.

It’s almost like she wants him to hear, which… yeah, she probably does.

“Shocker,” Luche deadpans. “You don’t like someone you just met.”

“I know people for what they are, when I meet them,” she snaps, one eyebrow arched sardonically. “A skill you could learn, if you weren’t too stubborn and so sure you already know better.”

“A skill that only seems to work on Galahdians, apparently,” he retorts, folding his arms over his chest. “So you’ll excuse me if I don’t see the value of it, right now.”

“He will ruin you,” his mother says, looking over her shoulder at him. “He will tear you to pieces and throw you to the dogs, and you’ll thank him for it.”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Luche says, trying to hold onto indifference despite the look she’s giving him. It’s a lot harder than he thought it would be. “I’m joining the Kingsglaive, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Of course you are,” she says, sneering, “I suppose it’s my fault, in a way, that you haven’t got the experience to realize this mistake for what it is. Well, you needed to learn, at some point.”

Luche opens his mouth to rebuke that, and then grinds his teeth when he realizes what she’s doing.

“Not up for discussion,” he repeats, heading back to his room.

It feels like a victory, to close the door behind him. A hollow, small one, but a victory nonetheless.


	74. year i | Smol baby covered with sleeping chocobos

* * *

 

_year i | Smol baby covered with sleeping chocobos_

* * *

 

Nyx made a wounded noise in the back of his throat. Cor snapped out of that almost pleasant, exhausted haze that followed after a good fight, unconsciously summoning his sword to his hand, and swept the area with his eyes, looking for whatever had caused that reaction from Nyx.

He was slightly taken aback by the fact Nyx was staring at one of the pens, an expression Cor did not have enough experience, or mental power, to decipher plastered across his face.

“Figured it was the warmest, safest place for the little tyke,” Wiz said - and Cor just realized Wiz was there in the first place, since he’d passed him over in his search for a threat - and gave Nyx a hopelessly amused little smile.

Nyx made the wounded noise again.

“Are you seeing this?” He asked, turning to stare at Cor, and then blinked. “Cor, put the sword away and come see this.”

Cor put away the sword and made his way over to him with slow, measured steps.

“Oh,” Cor said, and stared in fascination as Prompto continued to nap away blissfully beneath a pile of tiny chocobos.

Nyx made the noise again. Cor didn’t look.

Much.


	75. year xiii | Prompto waking up for the first time after Cor saves him from being kidnapped

* * *

 

_year xiii | Prompto waking up for the first time after Cor saves him from being kidnapped_

* * *

 

The world is fuzzy and awkward, like someone is shooting it dutch angle - which Prompto hates, because it  _doesn’t_ look cool, and can Noctis  _please_ stop trying to convince him otherwise, Prompto will cry if he gets another dutch angle badass portrait request from the Prince, there’s so much better ways to frame a shot, honestly, that’s just  _rude_.

Then he’s awake, between one moan - because dutch angles are the devil’s chosen framing device - and another - because holy shit everything hurts and Prompto would say he doesn’t have the words to describe it, but he does, they’re just the kind he’s not really supposed to use unless he really, really means them, but  _holy shit_ , he really, really,  _really_ does, right now - and he’d much rather not be.

“Hey, little man,” his dad says, and he’s suddenly there, and Prompto’s vaguely annoyed because he’s dropping frames, which he knows it’s ridiculous, because that’s not how it works but that’s how it looks and it  _sucks_. “Take it easy.”

“‘m tryin’,” Prompto slurs the words and raises a hand to try and hold onto Nyx. “‘s hard.”

“It’s okay,” Nyx says, holding his hand in his, “it’s probably gonna take a while for stuff to wear off.”

“m’kay,” Prompto agrees, though he’s not sure what he’s agreeing on, and for some reason he’s stuck on dutch angles and he’s getting annoyed about it, which is probably not good. “Hi, Cor.”

Cor’s hunched over at the other end of the room. Prompto curls his fingers around his dad’s, rubbing a thumb on the shiny scar on his dad’s index knuckle that he always swears is from where Prompto bit him when he was little, but that Prompto mostly thinks he’s joking about.

“Hey,” Cor says, almost too quiet to be heard, and stays where he is, which sucks, a little, but Cor also has this thing, that Prompto really likes, where he can be in a room and  _be_ in it, so it’s okay.

Mostly.

“Why m’I here?” Prompto asks, after a moment of basking on the fact Cor’s in the room and his dad’s holding his hand and the world is still tilted and dumb.

 


	76. year vi | Could we see Luche learning how to deal with the shit his mom says?

* * *

 

_year vi | Could we see Luche learning how to deal with the shit his mom says?_

* * *

 

When… the Captain took him in, he’d taught him how to channel his anger into something productive, something worthwhile. He’d hit the gym and mash his fists raw into a sandbag after a particularly vicious screaming match with his mother and he’d feel the anger ease off into adrenaline and leave him breathing so hard it burned his lungs, but that was alright, because it meant he was getting stronger. Better. The Captain liked it, called it progress, and Luche valued that, he did, because it meant he could let go of the rage without anyone getting hurt, not even himself. He was better than that.

But then.

Well.

There were a good many screaming matches, while Ulric was gone and the truth about the Captain came out, but Luche found himself avoiding the gym all together, because everything felt raw when he was there, not just his fists.

Then Ulric came back, and the Captain didn’t - he had, at that point, accepted the fact he wasn’t going to come back, and he was… he understood why but the rage build up was too much for him to do more than acknowledge that fact - and Luche didn’t even fight it, when they put Ulric at the helm, like he’d somehow paid for it with blood. Which he had, but Lucians were supposed to be better than that, even though the thought sat barbaric and terrible in the back of his head, forevermore.

And the rage grew, and the sandbags remained untouched, and Luche’s knuckles itched to be torn open, just so all the poison in his blood could ooze out and let him  _breathe_.

“You’re good at shields, right, Lazarus?” Ulric asks him, that same vapid tone of his, empty and open and terrible, like he’s not judging him and finding him wanting, even though he is, they all are, always.

And Luche shrugs, because he is. Says so, because he’s supposed to. He expects… he doesn’t know what to expect about Ulric, really. He’s so carefully the same as he was before, cheeky and irreverent and so fucking likable it makes Luche want to hurl and entertain every terrible thought about what could be lurking under that. Because there has to be, he knows that now, there has to always be something under the surface, and it has to be as grotesque as the outside is enticing, because that’s how it works.

But then Ulric puts their greenest, weakest in his care, and Luche spends his days standing idly, holding up a shield that swallows up all they can throw at him. The shield holds, even as they get better, passed along to others to hone their talents, classified and segmented into neat little platoons of destructive force to serve as pawns in Ulric’s chessboards. Luche fancies himself a rook, stuck in a corner and not going anywhere - but also ready, at a moment’s notice, to switch around and replace the king, when the time is right - and he knows what the others are: Axis and Pelna, knights moving weirdly and unpredictably in leaps across the board, Libertus and Tredd, bishops zigzagging the terrain and scooping back secrets priced in blood, and Crowe, Nyx’s queen, scorching the land beneath her feet, leaving only ruin and devastation in her wake.

The shield holds, even as newer, greener children join him, throw themselves at him, and Luche begins to push back. The Captain never paid attention to his ability to cast a good shield, because all the Captain wanted was for him to fight. Luche finds himself pissed that Ulric would notice, would make it his job. So Luche works on his shields, makes them sturdier, thicker, stronger. It’s harder to turn rage into a shield, than it was to turn it into a blade, but Luche’s nothing if not stubborn. Determined. He can’t hold onto the anger, when he’s pushing it out, making the little hexagons go from translucent shimmers to solid milky white planes of sheer  _fuck you_.

The shield holds, and more importantly, it makes other notice. Luche hates that Ulric was the first to see it, but he’s not shy about it, when the others come looking for him because of it. When he gets invited into training drills and they stop looking at him like he’s going to sprout  _that_ armor. 

He stops Crowe dead in her tracks, one day, and the smugness takes weeks to fade.

He can’t make a shield to hold his mother back. But he can block it out, in a way, because it’s second nature at that point, the mindset and the magic, and the less he tries to parry the blows, the less indent they leave. The less deep they dig.

In the field, he shields and holds his ground, and others come in and deal with the threat.

In his living room, he shields and holds his ground, but there’s no one to make it stop. It’s a war of attrition of sorts, that way, but he’s a rook in his corner, and hold on is all he has to do.


	77. year xxv | “I didn’t expect to say that but, congrats, I guess. You’ll be a good parent. Probably. You better be.”

* * *

 

_year xxv | “I didn’t expect to say that but, congrats, I guess. You’ll be a good parent. Probably. You better be.”_

* * *

 

“So yeah,” Aranea says, leaning on the railing in a way that’s suddenly ten times more terrifying with that nugget of newfound knowledge, “that’s a thing.”

Luche stares. And stares. And stares.

They have this joke, she and him, that they’re the same person sometimes, except for those times they’re not, and this is definitely one of the latter rather than the former. Luche shakes his head.

“So, what now?” He asks, because he’s still not sure what the suitable reaction for that should be. “Are you going to marry the Lordling?”

Aranea stares at him.

Snorts.

“No,” she says, eyes rolling with ease of practice, “don’t be stupid.”

He tries to imagine her married to the Lordling, anyway. Because he’s that kind of self-destructive. It’s… hard and ridiculous and he can’t imagine a scenario that doesn’t end with someone skewered with a lance.

“…probably for the best,” he says, after a moment, snorting.

They stand there, a moment longer, lingering, thinking. It’s a lovely day, like all days have been, since the Wall crumbled to nothing and the Citadel with it.

“You’ve thought about this though, haven’t you?” He asks, because it burns somewhere, under his skin, crawling like ants, “because you can’t take it back, later. If… if you do this, you’re doing this, and if you regret it later-”

“I won’t,” she cuts him off, and he hates it so much when she does, except when he’s drowning in the sinkhole of his own words, and then he sort of maybe loves her a bit, for that.

“The world’s going to shit, Nea,” he says, because, and this is the important thing, when the world goes to shit, it’s always the kids that suffer first. It’s not their fault, but then their parents’ worlds crumble under their feet and the only thing left to hold onto are them, and they grow up telling themselves the choking holds were tender, instead of trying to pull them down with them. “Actually, literally going to shit. You were there. This isn’t-”

“Here’s the thing,” she says, reaching a hand to poke his cheek, because she knows how much he hates when she does, “a very wise man once told me something I didn’t want to hear, at the time, which is kind of what wise people do, that’s why we call them wiseass. Wiseasses. You know what I mean.”

“Barely,” Luche snarls snidely, but purses his lips into a frown.

“The point is, I didn’t want to hear this, when he said it to me, and you’re not going to want to hear it, now, but I like you, Lazarus, even though, and probably because, you’re an asshole.” She grins, and she looks younger, when she does, like the bratty, teenage menace she’d been, trailing after Ulric and being larger than life basically always. “So I’m going to tell you, anyway.”

He knows better than to ask. He does. He’s not been friends with her this long without learning to see a metaphorical gaping pit at his feet, and know he should probably avoid it because there’s probably poisoned tip spikes at the bottom, too. Metaphorical ones, or literal ones. Aranea likes both.

“Do tell,” he says, instead, because she’s grinning at him, and if she’s making a terrible mistake, he doesn’t want to be the one to tell her to stop.

He’s not in love with her, the Lordling is. That’s his job, not Luche’s. Fuck.

“The thing about raising kids,” she says, and stares him in the eye, pointed, vicious, but unspoken, which is a kindness in itself, he supposes, “raising them, mind, not just having them. The thing about raising kids, it’s that no one really knows what’s best for them. It’s just a… how did he put it? A constant spiral of doing shit in good faith and hoping you’re not fucking them up too badly as you go along.”

“Sometimes you fuck them up a lot more than you think you do,” Luche snarls, and he’s not sure why he’s snarling, but it feels right, so he rolls with it.

“And sometimes you’re just not doing shit in good faith anymore,” Aranea shoots back, casual and flippant and it digs in deep, and he should be angry at her, he should, but he’s never been good at being angry at her.

Feels like being angry at himself and about as useful as punching a mirror: terribly glamorous if you’re into that sort of melodrama, but in Luche’s experience, it only ends in a bloodied fist, a mirror to replace, and probably another seven years of bad luck to add to his existing tab.

“ _Are_ you doing this in good faith?” He asks, still tense and wary and halfway considering punching that mirror after all.

“Yeah.”

He feels he should argue some more. But then, that’s not his job. He’s very good at it, but that’s not his job. She doesn’t want it to be his job, and he doesn’t want it to be his job, and it’s all perfectly fine, so long as they’re not each other’s chores.

“Okay,” and he supposes, grudgingly, that he is. A little bit. “Have you told your parents?”

She snorts.

“Obviously not,” she says, smile turning wry.

Luche frowns.

“Why?”

Because her parents are dumb and stupid and terrifying, but they’re not the ones who left her the scars that match his. They’re the ones who blurred up most of them, instead, and in a very weird way, that same weird way they’re one brain in two bodies, sometimes, have kind of blurred a few of his own, as well.

She arches an eyebrow at him.

“Because I wasn’t sure you weren’t going to talk me out of it, or not,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Luche thinks of mirrors and bloodied fists and how he hates his mother so much he might actually love her, these days.

“Oh,” he says and she laughs at him, because of course she does.

He’s going to be drinking for two, in the next months, it seems. He might as well start now.


	78. year ii | Someone won’t take Nyx’s no for an answer, Cor steps in to help it along

* * *

 

_year ii | Someone won’t take Nyx’s no for an answer, Cor steps in to help it along_

* * *

 

The gala for Nyx’s official promotion is an amusing affair, from Cor’s perspective. Not the least because he remembers his own and he’s at least sure Nyx could be handling this a lot worse.

Nyx has not, at least, attempted to jump off a window yet.

So there’s that.

“You do this,” Nyx muses, as they’re moved from the throne room to the ballroom prepared for the evening’s activities. “Every…”

“Four weeks or so, in the off season,” Cor replies, walking leisurely at his side, “then every night for a week, for the actual season.” He feels his lips twitch minutely at the blank look Nyx is giving him. “Yes.”

“Fu-”

“The walls have ears,” Cor interrupts smoothly, one eyebrow arched as they reach the wide double doors and steps back to let Nyx walk ahead. “Trust me, you do not want them to hear you swear within them. Be on your best behavior, Commander,” Cor adds, lips twitching, “you don’t want to find out what happens if you don’t.”

In retrospect, Cor regrets not making the joke more obvious, poignant. He meant the line as a throwaway jest to help Nyx relax somewhat, considering the taunt pull of his shoulders beneath the additional signs of office that now cover his uniform. But then Regis is there, grandiose and amused, because he is an asshole and he thinks Nyx’s barely contained panic at being thrust into the middle of his full court is funny, and he pulls Nyx along and away from Cor.

Cor is sworn to be present in each ball, on and off season, but that doesn’t mean he has to participate in them. Most of the time the experience is an exercise in patience as he finds himself a nice corner near a ready supply of alcohol, and he sets out to see how much he can drink while still standing to relative attention.

One does not talk to the Immortal unless spoken to first, and given Cor has no particular desire to speak with anyone in these events, they pass along in relative calm.

He finds his corner for the evening easily enough, one with a good enough view of the entire floor, and entertains himself tracking Nyx’s increasingly desperate attempts to disengage from the court as he’s passed along from noble to noble, to be tutted at and gawked on, before moving on. Cor notices, when the rotation passes close enough to him he can’t help but overhear, that the court is particularly bloodthirsty in mood, but he doesn’t think much of the matter. The court is always bloodthirsty and stupid, he never pays any mind to what they say.

It’s a very boring ball, for the most part. At least up until Cor notices Nyx reluctantly backing into one of the balcony alcoves in the southern side. There’s a very specific set of things one does, in those balconies, which is why the curtains are so thick, and also why Cor prefers to stay around the refreshment tables near the northern side.

Nyx doesn’t look particularly enthused about the prospect though. Most people are, when they vanish behind the curtains. One of those weird unspoken public secrets, that, full of complicated roundabout implications that Cor has never been very good at figuring out. He’s fairly sure Regis’ court has sex in his balls to make a statement, of some kind, but frankly he’s not very keen to figure it out.

Nyx still looks like he’d rather be heading off to execution. Cor hasn’t, to be honest, ever seen Nyx flirting. They don’t have that kind of… there’s always Prompto, in the middle. Besides, they didn’t end up fucking, while they were away from Insomnia, they’re probably never going to do it now. It’s alright. Cor doesn’t need to fuck his friends to like them or consider them friends. So he doesn’t know what Nyx Ulric looks like, when he’s wooing someone. But he’s almost positively sure it’s not meant to be… well. That.

And Nyx doesn’t play court games - before tonight, probably didn’t even know there were courtgames - so it’d be his partner rather than himself, making a statement.

It rubs Cor wrong. It rubs Cor wrong a lot more than he rationally thinks it should, and straight up becomes a thing he’s going to have to think about, later. But before that, he drowns his drink in one gulp and strolls in a straight line towards Nyx and the man so very insistently herding him towards a balcony and the thick curtain hiding it from view. The advantage of being who he is, Cor muses absently as he keeps his pace steady and not at all rushed, is that people are always so considerate in getting the fuck out of his way, when he’s in a hurry. Even if he can’t show he’s in a hurry. It’ll be a scandal, if they reach that invisible line, and he still interrupts. Sylvia would have his head, for starters. But he still would, because the closer he gets, the more irritated Nyx looks, like a caged animal who knows he could lash out and still hasn’t figured out if he should or not.

“Ulric,” Cor says, voice even and deadpan, “the King requests your presence.”

Nyx’s shoulders don’t slump, not quite, but his posture changes to relaxed so abruptly, Cor wonders if he didn’t hurt himself in the process.

“Marshal, sir,” he says, holding onto the title like it means something, “of course.” He turns to his companion, some Lord or another, Cor makes a note of his face but the name doesn’t come up immediately, which probably means he’s worth nothing. Or won’t be hard to get rid of, either. “My sincerest apologies, my Lord. Maybe some other time?” Nyx asks, in the tones of one hoping sincerely that other time never comes.

The Lord looks flustered and disappointed, but far too terrified of Cor, to comment on it.

“So,” Nyx asks, as Cor leads him out of the ballroom entirely, away from the music and the chatter, “did the King even ask for me?”

“No,” Cor replies, coming to stop in an empty corridor. “You looked upset.”

“Trying to gauge how much is a treason charge worth,” Nyx admits, snorting. “You do this, more than once a year.”

“Considerably more, yes,” Cor sighs, and allows Nyx’s dignity the easy segue into something else entirely. “You don’t have to worry about it, though.”

“Don’t I?” Nyx asks, looking dubious.

“The Commander of the Kingsglaive is not required to attend,” Cor lies, even though balls and the infinite number of opportunities to piss off nobles were one of Drautos favorite bits of the job.

Nyx lets out a sigh of relief that makes something twitch beneath Cor’s ribs.

“Small mercies.”

Cor makes a mental note to ask Regis to formally excuse Nyx from his ballroom obligations, as soon as he can get five minutes alone with him. Sylvia will want his head for this, but Cor figures he can navigate that storm much better than Nyx ever could.

“We have to go back, I assume,” Nyx asks, after a moment, shifting from one foot to the other.

He looks nice, in the formal uniform, all the fancy, shiny bits of it. Drautos used to look towering in it, positively monstrous sometimes. Nyx looks… nice.

“Not right this second,” Cor replies, because he is a complete and utter idiot, apparently. He allows himself a half smile, nonetheless, at Nyx’s barely suppressed hopefully look. “I mean, we are waiting for the King. It could take a while.”

“A very long while?” Nyx asks, tone far too casual to fool Cor.

“Possibly,” Cor deadpans, offering a token shrug. “So you’re stuck with me for the time being, Ulric.”

Nyx smiles. It’s a nice smile. Cor screams at himself, inside his head.

“I can deal with that, Marshal.”


	79. year xxi | Nyx and Ignis discussing useful techniques for fighting dirty? Potentially to give Ignis an extra edge now that he's lost his eyesight?

* * *

 

_year xxi | Nyx and Ignis discussing useful techniques for fighting dirty? Potentially to give Ignis an extra edge now that he's lost his eyesight?_

* * *

 

“You need to be in control,” Nyx said, pacing around him slowly, as indicated by the sound of his voice.

“I’m good at that,” Ignis replied, with a slight shrug and then dodged when he heard the rustle of cloth, then yelped when a foot mercilessly hooked on his ankle and pulled, leaving him tumbling gracelessly into the ground.

“No, you’re not,” Nyx pointed out, not unkind, but also not gently. Ignis appreciated that distinction, considering the general reactions to his decision to resume his duties, despite the incident. “You’re good at reacting and adapting to situations. You’re a glorified clerk, Ignis,” Nyx told him, and Ignis could perfectly see in his mind, the expression on his face: an arch eyebrow and a wry smile. They didn’t soften the words in the slightest. “You don’t call the shots, the King does. You’re just along for the ride, panicking quietly in the back of your head while you try to keep everything from ending up in shit, possibly on fire.” Ignis snorted acidly, and Nyx echoed it. “That’s not control, that’s damage control.”

“Which would be a subset of control, yes,” Ignis retorted, quietly pulling himself back onto his feet.

Nyx didn’t offer to help him. He appreciated that, too.

“Yeah, but that’s not the control you need for this,” Nyx pointed out, and the cloth rustle echoed again, a shrug this time. “You need to call the shots, in a fight. You need to dictate exactly what happens and when. You need to learn how many ways your enemy can move, and you need to act precisely the right way so they’ll do exactly what you think they will do. You need to know where they’ll go and how and why and when.”

“Okay,” Ignis said, frowning slightly, then dodged again at the upcoming blow. He fell, again. “I assume that is meant to be didactic in some fashion?”

“Maybe,” Nyx laughed, “maybe I’m just an asshole. You can’t tell, can you?”

“I have an inkling, at the moment,” Ignis murmured irritably, standing up again. “How should I go about this, then, in your opinion?”

“You were always one of the best duelists in the kingdom,” Nyx told him, “you had the perfect form, the best manners. I’m gonna need you to forget about all that.”

“Start from the beginning then,” Ignis theorized with a sigh, though he knew it was a distinct possibility. His situation did require some level of adjustment. “Will you teach me a new form, then?”

“No, Ignis,” Nyx said, grin clear in his tone. “I’m gonna teach you how to cheat like an ill-bred Nilf  _whore_.”

Ignis barked a laugh before he could help himself. Then he realized it was the first time he’d laughed - properly laughed, from the gut and without ghosts clinging to it - in  _months_.

He grinned back.

“When do we start?”


	80. year xxxvii | who in the cornyx family dies first?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skip this one if you're not in for the heartbreak!

* * *

 

_year xxxvii | who in the cornyx family dies first?_

* * *

 

 ****“I think,” Prompto said, sitting on the bed with his knees pulled up his chest, “I think I’d like us to have our… last conversation now.”

“This isn’t gonna be our last conversation,” Nyx replied, voice hoarse, looming by the doorway, as if terrified of entering the room properly.

“I know,” Prompto smiled, “but it’s getting hard, dad, every day. I keep forgetting more and more stuff. I don’t want us to have our last conversation when I don’t remember the important things anymore. ‘Cause then I won’t be me. So let’s have it now, while I’m still here, and then when it gets really gross and stupid, you can just pretend nothing ever happened after today.”

“I’m not going to pretend nothing happens after today,” Nyx snarled, and then stepped into the room.

Momentum carried him halfway into the room and then failed him when he took in the sunken eyes and the steadily thinner limbs. It had been gradual, of course, once they’d figured out what was wrong with him. It had been slow and steady and unstoppable. But Nyx remembered his son, all of a sudden, as he’d been before that first collapse, grinning and devious and always full of light, and it hurt all the more to see him now, when all that was left was the steely determination to be nothing else but himself.

“I know,” Prompto snorted, a wheezing sound, as he smiled. “Wanna sit down?”

Nyx didn’t, but he went anyway, and found Prompto still fit in his lap, even now, just like always.

“What should our last conversation be about?” Nyx asked, words pressed against the crown of Prompto’s head.

“I dunno, I’m not very good at this,” Prompto laughed, fingers digging into Nyx’s shirt. “I’m scared. I don’t want to, but I am. And it sucks. I wanted this to be… I don’t know. Meaningful somehow. But it’s just shit and I don’t want to die.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to die, dad.”


	81. year v | Cor gets scared that Nyx might be hurt/dead/gone cause he’s not back yet from wherever. And then Nyx comes back and Cor is dealing with it poorly and Nyx is like WELCOME TO HOW YOUR GRAELA TRIP FELT

* * *

 

_year v | Cor gets scared that Nyx might be hurt/dead/gone cause he’s not back yet from wherever. And then Nyx comes back and Cor is dealing with it poorly and Nyx is like WELCOME TO HOW YOUR GRAELA TRIP FELT_

* * *

 

Nyx leaves an uncharacteristically cold summer morning, so early not even Cor would comfortably call it morning yet. He leans over Cor, one knee on the bed and hands holding his weight at each side of Cor’s head, and presses his mouth to his, easy and casual like he always is, showing affection. Cor likes that about him, even if he’s utterly baffled by it, at times, the way Nyx seemed to loose all inhibitions once he knew his affection was not unrequited. Which is… nice, to be in the receiving end of, it’s not like Cor’s complaining about it. It’s just he’s never quite sure how to reciprocate quite as… effortlessly as Nyx does it.

“Don’t set anything on fire while I’m gone,” Nyx tells him, pulling back before Cor can wake up enough and coordinate reaching up and running a hand through his hair. “You know I hate missing a good trainwreck.”

Cor doesn’t say  _be safe_  or  _come back soon_  or any other good will wish he probably should. He frowns somewhat when Nyx dodged the hand aiming for his hair as he pulls back, and catches it with one of his own. Cor stares at him, when he presses his lips to the inside of his wrist, mouth quirked into a half smile.

“Go back to sleep, Marshal.”

Cor makes a sound of agreement in the back of his throat and does just that. It’s not like Nyx will be gone for long, he’s escorting the Oracle, after all, it’ll be two weeks at the most.

But at the end of the two weeks, Nyx and his unit, and the Oracle, have fallen into complete radio silence instead.

Cor focuses on small, immediate steps required to keep functioning, instead of anything more dramatic and objectively useless. He shuffles his schedule about, to make sure he’s spending more time home than in the office, to look after Prompto and, considering her increasingly frequent stays on their couch, Aranea. He drops Prompto off in the mornings and makes up a mental list of things that need doing that Nyx usually does and are obviously not getting done now that he’s not around. It’s easy. Cor’s used to living alone. He can manage. Mostly.

Extra weeks pile into months, and of course Cor keeps his cool about it, and the extended silence from the radio, if nothing else because someone has to handle Prompto and his increasingly pointed silences. And Aranea is on a personal mission to see how often she can land herself in Cor’s presence, and he shouldn’t find it amusing, but he does.

It’s fine.

It’s all fine.

It’s a careful balance to maintain but Cor is nothing if not thorough and methodical and perfectly capable of surviving on his own, even if he’s no longer really on his own anymore.

It’s fine.

When Nyx comes back, at long last, autumn is almost over. He’s there when Cor comes home from a grocery run that had to be rescheduled and he… didn’t forget about, not quite, but hadn’t found the right time for, until then. He’s thrown on the couch, not passed out but close enough, still in uniform. Cor moves quietly into the kitchen, emptying the bags and putting it all away carefully before he walks up to him. He stands there a moment, gauging with a critical eye if the scraps are mostly dirt and wounded pride, or something worse. They don’t look too bad. Cor basks in the sound of Nyx’s breathing, trying to match it, not sure when his own fell out of sync.

Cor shudders, once. Twice.

Nyx startles, somewhat, when Cor reaches a hand to cradle his head, fingers caught on his hair, and Cor catches the instinctual swing of a fist with his other hand even as he pulls Nyx up enough to press their lips together. Cor makes a small, choked noise in the back of his throat, the moment Nyx kisses back, sitting up and dragging him down.

“Hi,” Nyx says, breathing the words against Cor’s mouth, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Hey,” Cor replies, still mostly deadpan.

“Missed me, I take it?” Nyx asks, eyes half lidded and tone raw in that shredded way of his that always follows a mission gone wrong.

Cor tilts his head to the side, pressing his forehead against Nyx’s throat.

“No,” he lies, and wraps his arms around Nyx’s waist.

“Right,” Nyx snorts, and it still sounds wrong, but it’s a better kind of wrong, somehow. “Just like I didn’t miss you when you fucked off to Gralea.”

Cor tenses all over again.

“You didn’t go to Gralea,” he says, carefully, quietly.

Nyx laughs hollowly, digging his fingers into his back.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Nyx,” Cor hisses, starting to pull away.

Nyx’s fingers dig in harder.

“Shut up, Cor,” he says, pulling him closer. “Later.”

Later. He doesn’t want to, not quite, but at least Cor can handle later.


	82. xix | Prompto's first injury in the field

* * *

_xix | Prompto's first injury in the field_

* * *

 

The house was oddly quiet, without Prompto around. Usually, after dinner, he’d be sitting on the floor in the living room, playing some kind of game and possibly whining into a headset at the Prince about it and the unfairness of it all. Instead Nyx sat on the couch staring dispassionately at the news and rubbed slow, anxious circles over Cor’s sternum with his left hand, while Cor politely ignored that nervous tic and continued to read his book, head comfortably propped up Nyx’s thigh.

There was a chorused beep, from both Nyx’s phone on the low table and Cor’s, balanced neatly on his belt buckle.

There was a small pause, as a second in-chorus beep came through.

Then Cor reached out for his phone and pretended not to notice the way Nyx lunged for his own and very nearly toppled him off the couch entirely.

In the family chat - renamed three weeks earlier as  _ **HOLY TITSICLES**_  by Aranea, after a not entirely disastrous mission to the Glacian’s corpse - Prompto announced:

> _critical mission up8_
> 
> _cactuars r dicks irl_
> 
> _my entire life is a lie_
> 
> _:(_

Followed by a selfie sporting the biggest damn pout in recorded history, and also approximately three thousand needles stuck to him. Cor watched Nyx warily, waiting for his reaction, and then sighed in relief when all he did was try to choke back his desperately amused - and relieved - laughter. 

So he snorted, and typed back:

> _Yeah._
> 
> _They are._
> 
> _Tonberries are worse tho._


	83. xvii | Sun is out!Prompto first time smut

* * *

 

_xvii | Sun is out!Prompto first time smut_

* * *

 

“Why do you have so much crap?” Prompto asked, slightly out of breath as he tried his best to carry the box in his hands. “Why most of it is books? Books are heavy, Gladio. We’re in the eighth century, dude, kindles are a thing.”

Gladio snorted.

“Less whining, more working,” he said tartly, nudging Prompto’s leg with his foot as they exited the lift into the floor of his new apartment.

A few hours later, Prompto let himself fall on the couch with a tired sigh.

“Well, there you go, one bachelor pad served,” he tilted his head over his shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly as Gladio came into the room carrying a can of beer and a can of soda in his hands. “You’re going to woo so many ladies, remind me to never bring a black light in here.”

Gladio snorted as he offered him the soda, not quite suitable payment for the effort involved in hauling sixteen boxes of books up into the apartment, in Prompto’s opinion, but it was pretty cold so it was a start. And Gladio was a friend. Prompto was willing to do a lot of things, for a friend. Even carry dead weight up stairs because said friends were too fucking old fashioned for a good old kindle. At least Prompto knew what to buy Gladio for his next birthday.

“Or guys,” Gladio mused, eyebrows arched. “You never know.”

“I don’t think I’ve actually ever see you woo a dude,” Prompto mused, head tilted to the side. “Don’t know if your success ratio carries over.”

“You’ve been keeping track of my success ratio?” Gladio asked teasingly, dropping on the couch next to him.

“Are you kidding me?” Prompto laughed, “like anyone within a four mile radius could miss it when you’re on the prowl.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Gladio muttered into his beer, not looking at him in the eye, “it’s not that bad.”

“The thirst is real,” Prompto snorted, and ducked when Gladio took a mock swing at him. “So. Real.”

“So you think I’m that obvious huh?” Gladio asked, frowning a little.

“Subtle ain’t your style, my friend,” Prompto said, shrugging. “I mean, it’s not a bad thing, yeah? Being direct like that? At least your intentions can’t be missed or misunderstood or anything.”

“Yeah,” Gladio replied, and placed his beer on the small table - on the tiny purple coasters that Ignis had given him as a homecoming gift, for the explicit purpose of saving his furniture undue abuse. “I suppose direct is best.”

“For some people,” Prompto began, but didn’t get further than that, because Gladio reached out to pull his head and the next thing he knew he was being kissed.

Like.

A lot.

_A lot._

Might have something to do with the fact he was digging his fingers into Gladio’s back and pulling him down to keep him in place. Maybe.

“So,” Prompto gasped, staring at Gladio’s lips because anything else seemed to be entirely outside his grasp at the moment, “intentions, huh.”

“Pretty clear, huh,” Gladio snorted and tilted his head to catch his teeth on Prompto’s throat.

Prompto giggled in a strangled, high pitched tone, and dug his fingers a little tighter into Gladio’s back.

“I think it could be clearer,” Prompto whispered, “I mean. You wouldn’t want me to misundersta—aaaah. Oh fuck.”

Prompto clung to Gladio’s back as he was hauled off the couch like he weighted nothing. Which. Okay. He probably did. He’d seen Gladio’s sword. His. Actual sword. Not just his cock. Well, he’d seen that too, once or twice. Crownsguard showers were tiny and cramped and no one gave a fuck about anything. So. Yeah. But.

Prompto’s back hit the mattress as Gladio’s mouth slid against his, and his brain rebooted forcefully.

“Tell me I’m going too fast,” Gladio whispered, looming over him, eyes half lidded.

“Snail’s pace, dude,” Prompto hissed, licking his lips, “I’m growing old here. Growing mold, even.”

Gladio chuckled. That low, dark ring of laughter of his that usually followed either a good fight or a good prank, and that Prompto might or might not have jerked off to more than once. Everyone jerked off to their friends at some point in their lives, if their friends happened to be half as hot as most of Prompto’s were. Obviously. Nothing wrong with that.

“You’re a little shit,” Gladio said, grinning, and slid a hand down Prompto’s side to grab a thigh and pull his hips up until they were  _grinding_.

Prompto giggled again.

“Guilty as charged,” he said, eyebrows arched teasingly, “are you gonna do something about it?”

Gladio bore his weight down.

“I have an idea or two.”


	84. year xii | Prompto, Noctis, kitties, furs

* * *

 

_year xii | Prompto, Noctis, kitties, furs_

* * *

 

“So,” Noctis began, frowning with all the solemn severity a twelve year old could muster, “does it do any tricks?”

Prompto rolled his eyes.

“It’s a  _cat_ ,” he said, and then, when Noctis kept starting expectantly at him, he rolled his eyes again and reached a finger to poke the ball of fluff sprawled gracelessly between them, “cats don’t do tricks.”

“Usually,” Noctis replied, sulking a little, “but it’s yours.” Prompto stared at him, blinking in surprise. Noctis shrugged and looked away, not quite disappointed. “All your stuff is always pretty special.”

Prompto snorted.

“No, it ain’t,” he said and almost didn’t have to think about it, these days; the ain’t tasted of grease and bolts and Cid’s hand roughly ruffling his hair.

They laid on the rug of Noctis’ playroom - a giant, black-furred rug shaped like a bear or a wolf or something entirely too big to be real, but that felt nice to lie on and which Noctis had found in one of the old, closed off corners of the Citadel and immediately asked his father to let him keep for himself - cradled in soft fur, with Prompto’s cat sprawled gracelessly between them, contemplating what to do next.

“…well, there’s something,” Prompto said, after a moment, “my cat gives no fucks, Noctis.”

Noctis giggled, the nervous, delighted sound because Prompto was allowed to swear, and he wasn’t, not without invoking the wrath of… pretty much anyone in the vicinity. Prompto didn’t swear all that much, but Noctis thought it was pretty damn funny every time he did.

“Really?” He asked, eyebrows arched.

“I mean, it’s not a trick, because it’s not a thing he does, it’s a thing he doesn’t do, but,” Prompto tried to explain, frowning a little, and then reached out to grab a paw and gently tugged it until it was stretched midair. The cat continued to sprawl where it was, on its back, not even twitching. “I mean,you gotta do all the work, too.”

Prompto let go of the paw, and it remained where it was. Noctis grinned.

“So why did you name him Mr. Sassy Pants On Fire?”

Prompto sighed dramatically.

“Because my Dad and Cor were still not talking and were mad as all hell at each other and I wanted to make them laugh,” he said, shrugging. “I just call him Sassypants, for short. It’s a terrible name, but all make sacrifices for the greater good.” He wrinkled his nose. “Well, that’s what Mr. Amicitia likes to say, anyway. I’m still not sure.”


	85. year i | singing on a rainy day

* * *

 

_year i | singing on a rainy day_

* * *

 

Weirdly enough, Nyx was always chipper when it rained. Most people Cor knew, including himself, grew downright miserable, if they had to march out under a storm, but Nyx Ulric seemed to think there was nothing better than it. He seemed determined to make sure Prompto shared his fondness for it, too, walking slower - still faster than Cor felt comfortable walking, to be honest - and holding out his tiny hands to feel the rain.

“You’d think you’d want to enjoy the fact we actually have indoors to use, this time around,” Cor said, sitting on the caravan’s doorframe, feet barely away from the pelting of rain.

On the grass, a few feet away from him, Nyx sat on the ground, uncaring of the mud and the water, watching Prompto - who seemed to care even less about the mud and the water - walk tiny circles nearby on surprisingly steady feet. Every time the sky flashed, lightning striking nearby, Prompto let out a delighted giggle, clapping his hands and turning to Nyx to see if he approved. Nyx very clearly approved.

“You ever been to Galahd, Marshal?” Nyx asked him in return, tilting his head to look at him over his shoulder. “Ever seen what rain is like there?”

“Once,” Cor replied, frowning. “Four, five years ago?”

"You were there with the King, then,” Nyx guessed, closing his eyes and tilting his head up to let the water run down his face. “When Glauca was first sighted there.”

“I suppose,” Cor agreed, and watched Prompto stop walking in circles and instead start to approach him with tiny, deliberate steps. “It was raining, then.”

Nyx laughed. He laughed more often, the closer they got to Insomnia, Cor noted. Less sharp, too. Prompto completed his journey and stumbled over, grabbing onto Cor’s ankles to keep himself upright, tiny hands leaving muddied stains on the already stained fabric. It didn’t really matter, to be honest. They had enough for a caravan which meant enough for laundry, which meant another day lying around inside the cramped little space, in their underwear, waiting for their clothes to dry. Then they’d head out for a week or so, until the next settlement, the next hunt, the next caravan. Insomnia was getting closer, in theory, but in practice the journey just got longer, wider, jaws opening and threatening to swallow them whole in a routine that, Cor was loathe to admit, was already entirely too familiar.

“You need a shower,” Cor told Prompto, arching an eyebrow when thunder roared high up in the sky and the boy squealed in delight. “I suppose you’re going to stay til it’s done,” he told Nyx, reaching out to grab the boy and hoisting him, and himself, up.

“Maybe,” Nyx sighed, rubbing his nose with the back of a hand. “Don’t finish the hot water.”

“I promise nothing,” Cor replied tartly, and disappeared back inside the caravan, Prompto still giggling in his arms.

One could get used to anything, Cor thought, after fifteen minutes of artistic balancing and washing of a small child in a frankly obscenely small stall. He sat Prompto on the rim of the small sink and tented to his beard, even as the hot water cooled down in little trails along his back.

Outside, he heard the off-key rumble of Nyx’s voice stumbling over the mismatched bars of a song he’d never heard before, but which seemed oddly in-tune with the rhythm of the storm.

One could get used to anything, yes, but that wasn’t always a good thing.


	86. year ix | Auntie Crowe

* * *

 

_year ix | Auntie Crowe_

* * *

 

“Look here,” Crowe said, shuffling the cards in her hands with a small smirk, “you roll them over and over but it doesn’t really matter.”

Prompto stared at her fingers, cards sliding gently between them, moving as if they had a mind of their own.

“But, like, that’s cheating,” Prompto pointed out, blinking as she pulled out four aces from the top of the stack, eyebrows arched.

“Only if people are dumb,” Crowe retorted, pulling the cards back, shuffling them and putting them back on Prompto’s hands. “Everyone knows the first rule of playing cards is knowing someone in the table is cheating, everyone if they know what they’re doing, only you if you’re very lucky.”

“But cheating is bad,” Prompto replied, though without great conviction, as he dutifully replicated the movement of her fingers as best he could.

“Cheating is only cheating if you agreed to the rules,” Crowe replied, one eyebrow arched, and then reached over and flicked her fingers over his forehead. “If someone else agreed to the rules but didn’t ask you about it, if they just assume that you’re okay with it without making sure… well, it’s their own damn fault they’re getting their asses fleeced.”

“But if we’re playing cards,” Prompto pointed out, pulling out three aces and a Queen, “doesn’t that mean I agreed?”

“But the first rule of cards is that you cheat if you can, everyone does,” Crowe said, one eyebrow arched as she tapped on the deck and pulled out the missing ace. “It’s the most honest game there is, because of that.”

“That… doesn’t make much sense,” Prompto said, hesitant, and then winced when she rubbed her hand into his hair.

“It’s okay.” She took the cards and reshuffled them again. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”


	87. year xx | Look like th' innocent flower,. But be the serpent under 't. / Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent underneath

* * *

 

_year xx | Look like th' innocent flower,. But be the serpent under 't. / Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent underneath_

* * *

 

She heard the whistling in her sleep, and when she woke up with a start, buried under her sleeping bag, the whistling was still there.

Luna stared into the ceiling of the tent, forcing her breathing to calm down and steady itself into an even note, and then slid her eyes sideways to find her brother asleep and undisturbed. Luna licked her lips and sneaked out of the tent as quietly as she could, even though she knew Ravus would wake for nothing short of an actual scream from her.

The sky was dark. The air was dark. The world itself was dark.

“Lunafreya Nox Fleuret,” the darkness hissed, as the whistling came to an abrupt stop. “I do not believe we’ve properly met before, my lady.”

Luna resisted the urge to look behind her, to the tent where her brother slept, and the tent where her fiancee and his retinue slept. She forced herself not to think about them, so it was only her and the dark, alone, and so long as she didn’t think of them, it would not notice them.

“No,” she replied, voice as demure as she could make it, holding her hands clasped together before her, “I don’t think we have.” She knew what it was though. He. Them. It was the Oracle’s calling, after all, to hold it-him-them back, forced them into shadows til the coming of the Chosen King. “Do you have a name? I wouldn’t want to offend by assuming.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” and it was a he now, that laughed, quiet and slithery, vowels dragging into a pleased, arrogant sound. “You’re too well  _bred_ for that, aren’t you, my dear?”

“I do what needs doing,” Luna replied, eyes narrowed as she realized there were shades to the darkness, and a shape to be made out, at the edge of the treeline. “You still haven’t given me a name.”

“In the old days,” the man who was not, in fact, a man, said with a small smile, as he began walking towards her, darkness and corruption licking at the edges of his being, “when the world was new and humans were little more than almost sentient ants scuttling around the Astrals’ feet, people used to think that names were powerful, that the very nature of the thing is contained within the name.”

“People used to believe many things,” Luna replied, eyes narrowed and expression as serene as she could make it, “and now they believe many more.”

“Doesn’t make the old beliefs wrong, or the new ones right,” the man replied, taking off his hat to bow to her. “It just means humans still do what humans do best, tell themselves stories to try and explain the world, make it less scary when they’re huddling for warmth around the fire.” He put the hat back on and smiled at her, from under the rim. “You are not afraid, though, are you, my dear?”

“I know not to be afraid,” Luna replied, and resisted the urge to lick her lips. “Your name?”

“You do, don’t you?” He laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. “There’s power in the name, if only power to create expectations about the fool who wears it. All you need to know, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, is that I am here. Watching. Waiting. Dawn is all the sweeter after witnessing midnight, wouldn’t you agree, dear girl?”

“I think you should leave,” Luna said, swallowing hard, and shifted her feet until she was stepping on one of the glowing runes. Her magic siphoned into it, almost without thought, and the runes shifted from pale blue to blazing gold, defiant and bright, lighting up the clearing all around them. “Now.”

“I am here,” the man replied, laughing at the display, “I am always here.”

But he bowed again, and turned his back to her, whistling as he melted back into the shadows.

Luna stood there, magic fueling the runes, and held vigil until dawn broke in the horizon.

Still, in her dreams, she heard the whistling and knew it for what it meant.


	88. year ??? | Do you have any of your own interesting historical figures who you HC or have in AUs?

* * *

 

_year ??? | Do you have any of your own interesting historical figures who you HC or have in AUs?_

* * *

 

Pitioss sank into the earth, as the Goddess’ blood was spilled onto her own altar. The Infernian’s rage colored the sky and the Glacian’s fury withered the land. The Hydrean sank into the abyss and took entire coastline cities with her. The Archean raised from his slumber for the first time in eons. The Draconian wove light into crystal and prophesied the coming of a champion. And the Fulgurian vanished into the furthest ends of the world, disgusted with it all.

Galahad sits in the council as the surviving priests explain themselves, robes purple as per mourning custom. The Goddess commanded, and they obeyed, as their calling demanded. Or so they say. It matters not, Galahad knows, because the balance of the world has shifted irreversibly and even the Astrals themselves have not restored it.

Galahad goes home, surveys his house - family, servants, slaves - all lives entrusted to his judgment. All lives he feels will wither if they stay. Solheim is done for, there is no changing that. There is no hope of rebirth, not after this. Galahad’s house has served the Draconian’s mysteries for generations. It is his duty to support this coming champion, this King of Kings that will crown himself with light. To hold onto that promise.

Galahad frees the slaves, dismisses the servants and disowns himself. He sets off to seek the Fulgurian’s judgment and if any will follow him, they’ll do it out of their own free will.


	89. year xx | Sun is Out!Ravus and chocobos! Is he more of a dork about them than Prom?

* * *

 

_year xx | Sun is Out!Ravus and chocobos! Is he more of a dork about them than Prom?_

* * *

 

Argentum gushes about the chocobos.

Because of course he does.

Ravus has decided to be the bigger person about this - figuratively speaking, he  _is_ literally the biggest person in the group and apparently the Prince’s Shield is miffed about this on occasion, which is every occasion Ravus has a chance to point it out, despite the fact that, honestly, four inches is barely noteworthy once someone is over six feet tall, and Ravus would have expected Amicitia to appreciate the fact he has someone to commiserate with every time they inevitably end up smacking their foreheads on poorly built, unbearably low Lucian doorframes, but as stated, Ravus has chosen to be the bigger person, in general, if only for the sake of Luna and her frankly absurd attachment to her fiance.

Ravus supposes it could be worse, all things considered. She could be slanted to marry someone she disliked or who did not treat her properly - and at this, Ravus must be fair, Noctis has a veritable laundry list of flaws, as the vernacular goes, but in his treatment of Luna he has always shown himself to be… acceptable. Could be worse. Could definitely be better, of course, but Ravus knows better than to comment on it, if nothing else because he shares a tent with Luna and he has hopes and aspirations that would be tragically truncated if he were to be strangled in his sleep.

That and Luna has taken to keep her nails long, of late, and that makes pinching, an already unpleasant experience, tenfold worse.

Ravus is dragged back from his thoughts by the fact the bird at his side has decided to peck at his hair. If it had a mouth, with lips and such, Ravus would call it chewing, but that implies spit and saliva and slobber and he does not think about that, because he has flashbacks from the dogs and Ravus has gone through so many unfortunate incidents involving dogs and their tongues and his poor, poor hair.

“Excuse me,” Ravus says, glaring at the culprit with as much wounded dignity as he can muster, which at this point, is a considerable amount, given he’s just spent a month trekking through Leide and its goddamn obnoxious sandy, dusty plains that have dumped every single obnoxious speck of sandy dust, dusty sand, sand and dust, into the most inconvenient and unspeakable places, “do you  _mind_?”

“Kweh!” The bird chirps back, entirely too cheerfully, and pecks at his hair again.


	90. year xx | Prompto & Fireworks

* * *

 

_year xx | Prompto & Fireworks_

* * *

 

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Prompto says, lips twitching sideways, trying to melt into a scowl, despite his best attempts to avoid it. “Costlemark sucked. Like. A lot. Like, holy shit, I hate life and myself and the whole world and everything in it. I mean, it wasn’t  _Pitioss_ , but it was close.” Ravus snorts, looking down his nose at him, which, okay, to be fair to the great dumb git, he kind of has to do, by default, because he’s closer to seven feet than six, and Prompto’s respectable 5′8 was not even in the same league as his…freakish tall-ish-ness. But this is Ravus, who near always means it when he looks someone down his nose, both literally and figuratively, so Prompto is not exactly inclined to be charitable about it. Dickhead. “So I want to do something nice to cheer everyone up.” Prompto does not grit his teeth, even though he really wants to. “I was wondering if you’d help.”

Ravus blinks, frowning.

“I must confess myself curious as to why you would feel inclined to do so and why you would ask for my involvement, in particular,” Ravus begins, and Prompto does not shift from foot to foot impatiently, even though he can’t stand the verbose asshole and his need to use fifty words when four would have suffice. “Specially in light and consideration of-”

“Because you’re a dickhead!” Prompto interrupts, unable to resist temptation to stop the snowballing lecture before it really gets going, “but you’re not like… a  _malicious_ dickhead.” Ravus splutters. It feels fantastic. “Anyway, everyone else is busy or recovering or trying to become one with a bed, and I need a meatshield.” Ravus splutters again and Prompto laughs. “But considering you walked out of  _Costlemark_ , unscathed, I’m pretty sure you won’t even break a sweat at what I need.”

…well, okay, so Prompto might or might not be angrier about Ravus’ flippant, shitty comments throughout the entirety of fucking Costlemark and maybe a whole lot more than he originally thought he was, which. Okay.

“I’ll do it,” Ravus replies, before Prompto can figure out how to apologize to the Crowned Prince of Tenebrae for calling him a dickhead and requesting him be his meatshield.

Prompto blinks.

“What.”

Ravus rolls his eyes, and never mind, there’s the suicidal urge to punch him again, right smack in his dumb, arrogant mug.

“I’ve agreed to be your… meatshield,” Ravus replies, one eyebrow arched and a small sneer tugging at his lips, “provided this idea of yours is worthwhile.”

It occurs to Prompto, later that evening, after he’s done mixing up the shells, that asking Ravus to come along so he could be saddled with the fight-y bits of the trades Prompto did to get his ingredients is not entirely different from Dino saddling him with the murder bits of getting his ores. Ravus took it surprisingly well, at least. He didn’t even complain or sneer or get them kicked out of the Hunter camp for being the kind of arrogant dickhead he always is. So there’s that.

There’s something about fireworks that just… makes it hard to feel sad. Or angry. Prompto beams proudly when his idea is well received.

“You’re surprisingly crafty,” Ravus tells him, which is almost nice, for Ravus, but there comes the sneer, right on time, “for someone of your-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Ravus,” Prompto snorts and gloriously ignores Luna’s desperate giggling at the look on her brother’s face. “We’re having a moment. We’re alive, nobody died and we might be halfway decent at this whole adventuring thing. Let’s just… have the moment, okay? Okay.”

The moment lasts forty-nine seconds - Prompto counts - before Ravus turns to look down his nose at him again and opens his mouth to vomit pretentious, arrogant dickishness on him. That’s still forty whole seconds more than Prompto would have given him credit for, if asked.


	91. year xx | Prompto pulling the groups asses out of the fire in a fubar situation, and just being a badass, during the roadtrip? (Maybe building on ravus being an idiot in that one snippet?)

* * *

 

_year xx | Prompto pulling the groups asses out of the fire in a fubar situation, and just being a badass, during the roadtrip? (Maybe building on ravus being an idiot in that one snippet?)_

* * *

 

“Stay the fuck away from the Angelus, I said,” Prompto hisses, “it’s a fucking monstrosity made of hate and evil and all things shitty, I said.  _Do not fucking fight the Angelus_ , I said.” He scowls at Noctis and Ravus, who’ve definitely made Prompto wonder, in the past five hours, if being a reckless idiot who throws himself face first into perfectly avoidable danger is some kind of requirement to be a Prince, because  _honestly_. “I remember saying that very clearly, did I say that? Because I remember saying that. A lot.”

“I believe you did,” Ignis mutters wryly, and then winces as the ceiling in the cave shakes violently, “in fact, say that.”

“Several times, maybe,” Luna adds, nodding, and giving her brother a suitably reproachful look.

“Well, we fought it,” Ravus snaps, wrinkling his nose in an almost snarl.

“…tried to, anyway,” Noctis admits, wincing.

“Now what?”

Prompto stares at them.

“Now we die,” he deadpans, full blown Cor deadpan the likes they’ve never heard before. They stare. He stares right back. “I need you to understand we are  _fucked_. We’re fucked on a scale no one has ever been fucked before, they’re going to invent a new word to describe how fucking fucked we are right now, because that’s an electric buzz-saw  _on fire_  that’s doing the fucking, which not even my parents could take the fuck down.”  He pauses a moment to let that sink in. “ _My_   _parents_.”

“Well,” Gladio begins, and then stops, not quite sure how to follow up to that.

“ _Shit_ ,” Luna says, with feeling.

“I’m rather partial to  _not_ dying,” Ravus mutters wryly, lips twisted into a mighty frown.

Prompto laughs and then kicks his leg for it, because imminent death is probably not the best time to start finding Ravus Raging-Dickhead Nox Fleuret funny.

“Yeah, shame that’s what happens when you fight the Angelus,” Prompto snorts, giving Ravus a suitably dirty look for his trouble. “Which, and this is the important bit,  _I told you not to fight_.”

“I think you need to sit down for a bit,” Gladio says, raising his hands in a placating manner. “Prom-”

“Don’t  _Prom_ me,” Prompto whines, “I need all the rage I can muster to convince myself about the stupid thing I’m about to do.”

“Prompto,” Ignis says, standing up next to Gladio, frowning in concern.

“I’m a  _saboteur_ ,” Prompto says, swallowing hard. “I don’t  _fight_ things. I kill a lot of them, sure, but there’s absolutely no fighting involved. That’s the whole fucking  _point_.”

The ceiling shakes again, dirt and dust dislodging from the vaulted rocks ominously.

“You’re not going to fight that thing,” Noctis snaps, sitting up to attention.

“Of course I’m not,” Prompto snorts, licking his lips, “which is why I’m like, halfway convinced I might actually survive this. And then I’m going to cry. Because that’s the ideal result, me crying ugly, ugly tears because I survived this.” He pauses. “Ugliest fucking tears, if anyone takes a picture they’re getting shiv’d in their sleep.”

“Shut the hell up,” Noctis snarls, reaching out to grab two fistfuls of Prompto’s shirt, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Kinda have to, yes,” Prompto replies,  and very firmly dislodges Noctis off his person. “None of you know the specs or the weak spots or most crucially, how to run the fuck away from things, which we’re totally going to work on once I’m done not dying to this.” He shoves Noctis in Gladio’s general direction, whose face has gone tense and slack in places, because if there’s something Gladio understands, is duty. “It’s my job, Noct. Lemme do it.”

Noctis goes down like a sack of bricks when Gladio summarily cuts his impending protests with a well placed blow to the back of his head. Ravus makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“You don’t move until the ceasefire lasts at least fifteen minutes,” Prompto says, staring at Ignis in the eye. “Anything less than that, it means it’s still got lock-on you as priority targets. Also, don’t  _die_. That’s super important. Because if I survive this and you don’t, I’m going to text profanity and stale memes at the magical fox lady until she brings you back just to make me shut up, and then I’m probably going to murder you with my own bare hands.”

“Prompto,” Luna says, expression solemn, “good luck.”

“So many fucking ugly tears,” he replies, and then vaults out of cover without looking back.


	92. year xxxvii | Maybe something of Nyx's reaction to Cor going with him to Galahd

* * *

 

_year xxxvii | Maybe something of Nyx's reaction to Cor going with him to Galahd_

* * *

 

“Take me home,” Nyx says, staring at Cor with a carefully balanced expression, as if the music or the chatter exists in an entirely different world.

Cor puts down his beer, his only concession for the day, and stands up slowly enough it looks measured.

“Okay,” he says, that quiet, raw undertone that has been stuck on his throat since they first got the news.

“Cor,” Nyx says, not moving from where he is, rooted on the spot by the sheer weight of the words on his throat. “Take me home.”

It takes a moment. It’s a very short moment, shorter than Nyx could have ever hoped for, for Cor to grasp his meaning. It’s still a moment and it opens gaping at his feet, threatening to swallow him whole. And then Cor pulls him into his arms, one hand woven almost on instinct into his hair and Nyx buries his face into his shoulder.

“Okay,” Cor says, pressing the words on the crown of his head.

Okay.

It’s six months before they leave. Six tortuous, quiet months that Nyx spends buried under the white noise of his own head. They shed responsibility like a snake shedding old scales, and focus on quietly wrapping up the sprawling mess their lives became at some point, almost without them noticing.

Okay.

Nyx holds Cor’s hand, when they step on the boat, and he’s not really sure if he ever lets it go again.


	93. year xvii | But it looks so pretty when it goes boom!

* * *

 

_year xvii | But it looks so pretty when it goes boom!_

* * *

 

Prompto struggles with the explosive bit of the curriculum. It’s the first time he really has trouble with something Monica wants him to master. Everything else, there’s hard work involved, but he gets what he’s supposed to do. Explosives, though, they kind of unnerve him. He gets why he needs them and what they would be used for, but his usual tactic to handle learning new things, which is basically to sit down and soak up everything he can about it and then do practical tests and experiments until it clicks… well, it’s a wee bit hard to do, when it comes to shit that  _blows up_.

Nyx teases him when he brings it up, but his dad always teases when he’s nervous and Prompto appreciates the fact he’s not freaked out worse about his current career choice. So he teases back and promises jokingly not to blow up the house, for which his dad thanks him sarcastically and then ruffles his hair.

Cor tells him to visit Cid.

To be fair, Cor usually sends him to Cid whenever he doesn’t know what to say to him, which was a somewhat mind-blowing realization, but then Prompto reasons that he does the same thing with his friends, telling them to check with his dad, either of them, when he doesn’t know what to say. But still, it was staggering to realize that Cid is to Cor what Cor is to him, which is… all those things he is, and a bit more.

In Cor’s defense, though, Prompto hasn’t figured out anything to ask of Cid that Cid won’t answer, somehow, but he’s not sure if it’s because he’s ancient and has clearly seen and done everything already, or because he doesn’t have anyone to refer Prompto to, which is… a little sad and awkward to think about.

Then again, Cid bops his head with a wrench - gently, gently, it doesn’t hurt, ever, except when Prompto’s done something stupid, and then it stings, for a while - and makes him clean a truck’s engine before kicking him to the sandy rock plain behind the garage and telling him to not lose a hand in the process.

“I reckon you could make ‘em some fireworks with all that,” Cindy tells him, peering over his shoulder to look at the mess of supplies he’s trying to figure out.

Prompto blinks.

“…you know what?” He says, grinning up at her, “that’s  _totally_ a thing I should do.”

Cindy grins right back and helps him track down the supplies he needs. Prompto figures it should not be this easy to nick off ingredient lists and instructions out of the internet, but it’s about four months before he gets it right - and no one loses any fingers, or eyes, or any of the horrible things Prompto also finds when looking up information on homemade fireworks.

Monica argues that’s not what she meant, when she told him to master explosives, but Prompto argues back that he’s a saboteur - or trying to become one, at least - he’d have more use for colorful distractions than actual destructive power. It’s a very long, very heated argument; his mom comes up a few times.

“You do realize every single fucking time you drive her to drink,” Cor tells him, plopping down the couch at his side to watch him stream his playthrough of King’s Knight 4, which is infinitely superior to King’s Knight 7, which Noct is obsessed with because he doesn’t know any better, the poor soul. “Monica ends up getting drunk in my office and complaining about how much she wants to strangle you.”

“Yep,” Prompto replies, checking his setup and his headset. He offers Cor a slight smirk. “But to be fair, I’m right. It’s not my fault she’s not prepared to accept it.”

“ _Boom, like happy festival fireworks_ ,” Cor deadpans, one of Prompto’s very best lines ever delivered, if he does say so himself, and which is elevated to something glorious in Cor’s massive line face.

“My fireworks are fucking awesome, and spoilers, we’re gonna light up the sky on your birthday.”

Cor snorts into his beer.


	94. year xx | Could we see more of Ravus and Prompto being dumb at each other?

* * *

 

_year xx | Could we see more of Ravus and Prompto being dumb at each other?_

* * *

 

“I fear I’m going to regret asking,” Ignis sighed, coming to sit next to Gladio on the booth, “but what are they doing?”

“Spicy food eating contest,” Noctis replied, with entirely too much glee.

Luna elbowed him gently - gently! - and rolled her eyes when he shrugged defensively.

“…Ravus has never tried Galahdian cuisine, has he,” Ignis said, closing his eyes and taking off his glasses to massage them.

“Nope,” Gladio replied, entirely too cheerfully.

Luna kicked him under the table. He shrugged.

“The fact my brother is an idiot has never been up for discussion,” Luna said, expression unamused. “But I do take umbrage on letting him hurt himself purely for amusement.”

“It’s… probably fine,” Gladio replied, and ducked another swipe of her boots sharply enough the table rattled when his knees bounced off it. “I mean.”

“Probably,” Noctis snorted, and grinned when Luna gave him a pointed side look. “I mean, it’s just Takka, right? Takka wouldn’t serve them poison.”

“Cid would,” Ignis pointed out indolently, and nodded over to the counter, where Cid had, in fact, run Takka away from the stove.

“Oh fuck.”


	95. year xvi | Cor and Nyx watch a Bad “celebrity” porno staring a one Marshal Horny Lionheart in his office with general Nate lovedick. What do Horny Lionheart and Nate lovedick get wrong? What do they get right?

* * *

 

_year xvi | Cor and Nyx watch a Bad “celebrity” porno staring a one Marshal Horny Lionheart in his office with general Nate lovedick. What do Horny Lionheart and Nate lovedick get wrong? What do they get right?_

* * *

 

“…you think this is funny,” Nyx deadpans, staring at Cor with an unamused expression on his face. “You think this is  _funny_.”

“…I’m a sucker for a good pun,” Cor replied, shrugging apologetically.

“It’s porn,” Nyx said, staring a little. “Of us. Poorly marketed, parody versions of us, at that. How are you not pissed about this?”

Cor gave him a vaguely pitying stare and snorted.

“I was  _seventeen_ when I became a public domain character, thanks to Regis and his fucking insistence on making me the goddamn public face of the war and the Crownsguard,” he pointed out, one eyebrow arched. “Look, I’m willing to give the industry as a whole a pass if only because they finally settled on a parody name, and it  _wasn’t_ the fucking Whore thing.”

“Whore thing,” Nyx said, dubiously, and then blinked as Cor gave him a dead-eyed stare. “What’s the… oh.” He blinked again as Cor nodded. “Cor. Whore.  _Oh_. Ouch.”

“Like I said, an industry-wide pass for that,” Cor said, and then shrugged when Nyx kept staring a little. “Besides, it’s just porn. The entire adult industry self-regulates pretty well, anyway. Regis is considerably more lenient than his father ever was, and there’s still people who remember what it was like to have a King that crusaded morality for the sake of making people forget the fact he was losing the war. And I’m not hypocritical enough to get angry at people making a living out of shit I used to do for fun, couple decades ago.”

Nyx made a distressed noise in the back of his throat.

“I like sleeping at night, usually  _on_ you, so I’m purposely refraining from thinking about the fact a couple decades ago you were something barely ending in  _teen_.” Cor shrugged. Nyx shook his head. “How about I just stick to being annoyed at how well you’re taking this instead?”

“I mean, you were going to, anyway,” Cor pointed out, and allowed himself a shallow grin when Nyx rolled his eyes at him.

“So how did you do it anyway?” Nyx began, eyebrows arched, then rolled his eyes again, when he saw the expression on Cor’s face. “Get them to change their dumb alias bullshit thing.”

Cor gave him a very wary look.

“Why do you ask?”

Nyx scoffed.

“I’m sorry, do I look like a  _Nate_ to you?”


	96. year xviii | So we saw sun is out!Nyx, Cor, Araena (& Monica's) reaction to Prompto's combat selfies. How do others react to them?

* * *

 

_year xviii | So we saw sun is out!Nyx, Cor, Araena ( & Monica's) reaction to Prompto's combat selfies. How do others react to them?_

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, you do  _what_.”

Prompto blinks as Ignis stops walking, standing still in the middle of the wide corridor that leads to the central elevators.

“What?” Prompto asks, somehow having lost the thread of the conversation, considering he’s busy flipping through four different feeds in his phone.

“In combat,” Ignis says, after taking a moment to push his glasses up his nose. “You take pictures of yourself.”

“Oh,” Prompto replies, blinking, “selfies, yeah. Best part of writing reports, really.”

“I mean, you do this,” Ignis insists, blinking, “ _during_ combat.”

“Well, yeah,” Prompto shrugs, “when else would I do it?”

“After you’re done not getting killed, perhaps?” Ignis asks, though it sounds more like a demand, slightly high pitched and also not quite as calm and collected as he usually is.

Prompto stares.

“Well, one, because that’s morbid, taking pictures with corpses, like they’re trophies or something, and two, because that’s  _boring_.”

“ _Boring_.”

“Totally a buzz kill,” Prompto snorts, shrugging.

Ignis keeps giving him weird looks all throughout lunch. Showing him his favorite shots doesn’t help much, either.


	97. year xix | during a glaive/guard teamup mission cor gets critically injured and nyx has to make sure his husband doesn’t lose his “immortal” title

* * *

 

_year xix | during a glaive/guard teamup mission cor gets critically injured and nyx has to make sure his husband doesn’t lose his “immortal” title_

* * *

 

“They need to go,” Cor says, voice gone wrong, white knuckled grip on his sword. “Nyx, get them out of here.”

“Who?” Nyx asks, over their private frequency, hanging off a tree, some thirty feet off the ground, one dagger sunken to the hilt into the rough bark.

“Everyone,” Cor whispers, “I’ll hold it back.”

“Tonberry ahead,” Luche says, in the common frequency, sounding wary. “Just the one, apparently.”

“No,” Cor says, ominously calm, “not quite.” And then, “Commander.”

“Fall back,” Nyx says, because Cor’s hatred of the little deceptively cute bastards is a well-known fact to him, but this is something else. “All units, fall back to third rendezvous point.”

And then, as he’s counting the voices grudgingly obeying, he sees from his perch, a bright flare of light, and entire trees falling from a swing of what almost seems like a sword.

“Cor,” Nyx says, again, cautious.

“You too,” Cor replies, biting, short, and slightly out of breath, “you’re distracting.”

Nyx doesn’t take it personally. He does, but not here. Maybe later.

“Roger that.”

That’s the last he sees of Cor, on that mission, all twelve miserable days of it. And another four, to add salt to the wound, before he drags himself home. Almost. Nyx gets called to the Leide check point by some testy Crownsguard men on duty, only to find there’s a very irascible old woman who takes one look at him, and invites him to examine the contents of her wagon. It’s actually a wagon. Made of wood and everything. Pulled at the front by what seems to Nyx to be some smaller cousins of spiracorns, mean-looking and feral.

“When he wakes up,” the woman says, all dry tones and annoyed frowns, “be sure to tell him he has no favors left with me.”

Nyx almost asks. Almost. But then she pulls off a coarse, cotton blanket off the lumpy shape in the back and the entirety of Nyx’s blood freezes in his veins.

It’s bad.

It’s really bad.

“Well, don’t just stand there  _gawking_ ,” the woman tells him, clicking her tongue at him, “the stasis spell won’t last much longer, and he’s been bleeding out for almost fortnight now.” She pauses, scowling. “Unless you’d rather he dies anyway?”

Nyx doesn’t remember  hollering for help. He must have. At some point. The next thing he knows he’s riding in an ambulance and there’s blood everywhere and the controlled panicked whispers of a bunch of people trying to do their job, while Cor does his damn hardest to not let them by spouting new geysers of blood every five seconds.

Nyx doesn’t remember much, to be honest, of the following four months.


	98. year i | fever

* * *

_year i | fever_

* * *

 

“I’m not mad,” Cor said, at length, when he grew sick of the quiet, arms folded behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

Nyx startled, and flinched. Cor had expected it, honestly, but it still bit at him.

“We’re slowing you down,” Nyx said, cautiously, not looking at him.

He was lying on his side, back pressed against the small wall of the caravan, to leave as much space possible between him and Cor, as they shared the small bed. Plopped between them, breathing slowly, with a ghost of something wet and damning in his throat, Prompto slept on.

“I’m not mad,” Cor repeated, rather than try and argue - or acknowledge - the fact Nyx was right.

He’d be home already, if he weren’t indulging their pace. But the whole point was that he  _could_ go at their pace. Lyra was dead, there was no point in rushing for the sake of the dead. And the intelligence she’d gathered, the bits and pieces Nyx had salvaged as best he could - which was still a lot more than Cor would have expected a half-dead, traumatized man caring for a very small child to even think of trying to do, much less do somewhat successfully - was important, sure, but not time-critical.

He studied Nyx’s haggard face, for a moment, pondering how to best put the man at ease. Cor wasn’t very good at that, admittedly. He had an entire reputation built on being terrifying and viciously violent, and he’d let it go uncontested for the sake of being left well alone. Clarus would have known how to make Nyx feel better, though. Or Regis. Regis would have definitely been much better suited to handle the situation. But Regis and Clarus were in Insomnia, and Cor was there, lying in a cramped little bed in a derelict caravan on a border town near Tenebrae, looking after a man who still seemed three quarters dead whenever he wasn’t focusing the whole of his attention on the small child sleeping fitfully between them.

“Doc said the fever’d break tonight,” Nyx said, almost conversationally, reaching a hand to brush the thin, blond hair off Prompto’s face. “So maybe tomorrow-”

“We’ll leave next week,” Cor replied, and pretended not to notice the stare he earned for his trouble. He didn’t honestly look forward to an entire week stuck with that kind of awkward sleeping arrangements, considering Nyx get antsy, but still. Cor shrugged. “Or the one after.”

Nyx looked at him both hopeful and tired and worn somewhere around the middle, like he was still bleeding out and hadn’t really noticed.

“ _Thank you._ ”

Cor shrugged, face carefully blank, and chose not to answer. Mostly because he didn’t know how.


	99. year xx | aftermath of the angelus fight

* * *

 

_year xx | aftermath of the angelus fight_

* * *

 

“I thought… I thought he was joking,” Ravus said, staring down at Noctis as if expecting him to explain the bizarre turn of events.

Inside the tent, Prompto continued crying and ranting in turns, face buried into his bundled up sleeping bag. It was not particularly dignified crying at that. It was tears and snot and sniffling, his breath catching in his throat and his words slurring out between blubbering sobs.

“He wasn’t,” Noctis sighed, sucking at the inside of his bottom lip with the miserable look of someone trying to juggle relief and guilt simultaneously. “When he said ugly tears, he meant  _ugly tears_.” And then, because Ravus looked like he was about to say something terribly unfortunate and honestly, Prompto was still high-keyed enough Noctis wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t actually  _shoot_ the dumb lamppost if he stuck his foot down his throat: “It’s how he handles stress. Prompto,” he added, when Ravus stared at him. “He handles stress by crying. And games, I guess. But mostly crying.” There was a small pause. “Lots and  _lots_ of crying.”

“Ah,” Ravus said, “I see.”

Even though he really didn’t.

“It could be worse,” Noctis offered, resisting the urge to shudder. “His  _sister_ could be here. And then we’d be dead.”


	100. year v | first impressions, sylva & nyx

* * *

 

_year v | first impressions, sylva & nyx_

* * *

 

The first time she meets Nyx Ulric, she doesn’t entirely notice him. The manor is in flames, her children are terrified, and she’s not entirely certain any of them are going to make it out alive. But then Cor is there - Cor is familiar, at least, close and dear to Regis, a promise of survival all on his own - and he consumes her awareness with something frail and overwhelming she might call hope.

The first time she  _actually_ meets Nyx Ulric, he’s standing with practiced indifference before Regis’ council, reporting in an indolent voice about MT sightings around Lucis’ crumbling borders. He makes an offhand comment about whistling, however, and deep in her bones, she  _knows_. She takes notice of him, actual notice, as a person she might or might not be interested in keeping track of, because he doesn’t flinch when she begins questioning him about his report and he answers her questions with the unhurried ease of a man telling the truth.

“Your men must write very thorough reports, Commander,” Sylva says, as the meeting ends, and the shape of a terrible idea begins to unfurl in her brain. He’s not very well loved by Regis’ council - quite, quite the opposite, in fact, but he doesn’t quite fit the myriad of horrors she’s been told about. “It is almost as if you were there yourself.”

Nyx Ulric stares at her, not with awe or deference, but like he’s violently resisting the urge to call her an idiot.

“Yes,” he says, one eyebrow arched, “that would be because I was.” Sylva decides she likes him when he smirks, wry and still not groveling, and adds: “I’m the hands-on kind of guy, Your Holiness.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, considering, and steps forward. He doesn’t step back.

“Hands-on might be exactly what I need right now,” she replies, smiling even as the plan takes shape in her head.

Regis will likely argue. But then, no one argues quite like a Tenebraean on a mission.

“I’m flattered?” Nyx snorts somewhat incredulously. “But also gay.”

Sylva blinks at him, not quite sure what that has to do with anything. And then she realizes exactly what it looks like, that she’s cornered him out of sight like that. Might look like.

Oh.

Oh dear.

“I meant for  _fighting_ ,” Sylva splutters a laugh, trying for stern and finding it surprisingly hard in the face of his amusement. “I need an escort.” There’s a pause only broken by the widening of his smirk the precise second he realizes he’s managed to fluster her. “…please stop snickering, it’s undignified.”

His eyes are dancing and that’s unfair, she thinks, because she feels silly and twenty all over again, freshly crowned and unsure of how to keep her words under control and make sure they meant exactly what she wanted.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Nyx  _snickers_ , delighted in her embarrassment, “I’ve never been propositioned by royalty before.”

Sylva gets the feeling that she’s going to either befriend the irreverent fool or skewer him with her trident, before the day is out.


	101. year xiii | cor and nyx, weapon swap shenanigans

* * *

_year xiii | cor and nyx, weapon swap shenanigans_

* * *

 

There’s a moment of sudden, awkward quiet, as both Cor and Nyx summon their weapons to begin the match and realize they’ve somehow gotten the wrong one instead. Nyx’s balance shifts sharply though he manages not to stumble because it turns out Cor’s sword is impressively heavy, on top of impressively long. And Nyx would know about it being long and phallic, considering dick jokes about his sword is essentially the sum total of Cor’s abysmal sense of humor. Well, that an puns, anyway, but Nyx does not acknowledge the puns, because then maybe Cor will be forced to grow actual fucking wit and no, he’s not bitter about this, of course not.

Cor stands on the other end of the arena, staring at the kukri in his hand. Then he looks up to the little alcove where Regis has taken to sit and watch their fights, expression unamused.

“Really?”

Because the Kingsglaive and the Crownsguard have entirely separate and very distinct arsenal pools, and only the source of the magic could actually hope to mess it up like that.

“ _Really?_ ” Cor asks again, into his phone, once he answers the sharp ring tone that identifies Regis.

“I thought your life was lacking in  _variety_ ,” the King tells him, and Cor can’t see him, from where he’s standing, not clearly, but he knows the obnoxious asshole is laughing at him.

“The Regalia,” Cor explains succinctly, when Nyx approaches, and tries not to twitch at the abysmal way he’s holding his sword.

“Ah,” Nyx replies, just a dusting of red settling on the bridge of his nose, before he grins a leer at Cor. “…still worth it.”

The ensuing match is… interesting, to say the least.


	102. year xviii | abandoned cars

* * *

 

_year xviii | abandoned cars_

* * *

 

“You could help, y’know?” Cindy points out, eyebrows arched as she stands up straight, cracking her back after about two hours of rummaging around inside the derelict insides of an abandoned car.

“I’m helping,” Prompto replies, grinning wryly, “I’m keeping watch.”

“You’re toasting your ass, more like,” she says, snorting just a tad unkindly. “Speaking of, all clear?”

Prompto nodded.

“All clear.” And then he paused. “It’s a bit sad, isn’t it? These cars, I mean. Just…  _left behind_.”

“…Pumpkin, am I supposed to feel sympathetic?” Cindy snickers, leaning on her elbows and arching both eyebrows at him. “Cause that’s hard while guttin’ ‘em for spares.”

“I’m trying to have an introspective moment, okay?” Prompto sighs. “I dumped myself last Friday, I  _deserve_ a little sympathetic.”

“How in the hells did you even dump yourself?” Cindy wonders, casually tearing the steer wheel clean off the poor junker under her hands.

Prompto sighs dramatically, bowing his head until his ears are somewhere in the vicinity of his knees.

“ _Awkwardly_.”


	103. year xv | red eye

* * *

_year xv | red eye_

* * *

 

“No, no, no, wait!” Prompto flails a bit, trying to cover his face before Harit could snap the picture, but clearly not quickly enough. “Aw shit.”

Harit is giving him a weird look. Though, to be fair, Harit has been giving him weird looks for as long as he can remember. Prompto does admit the flailing might be slight overreacting.

“I thought you liked taking pictures?” Harit asks, blinking.

“I do,” Prompto sighs, rubbing the tip of his nose with the sleeve of his sweater. “But I’m wearing glasses.”

“…yes?” Harit asks, somewhat mystified.

“Just look at it,” Prompto sighs again, louder this time.

Harit blinks and looks down at his phone.

“…Prompto,” he says, voice slightly shaky, “excuse my Lucian, but what the  _fuck_.”

On screen, Prompto’s eyes are all but glowing red like some demonic monstrosity come straight from hell.

“Yeah, I have a… red eye condition,” Prompto says, rubbing his nose again with a wince. “Kinda started wearing contacts because of that.”

“That’s not how red eye works, you realize,” Harit points out, staring in fascination at the fact Prompto’s pupils don’t seem to be glowing with  _evil_.

“I’m very aware,” Prompto admits, wincing. “That’s why contacts help.”

Harit is quiet for a moment, before he very pointedly deletes the picture.

“I suppose we can break in my phone in the morning then.”

He chuckles when Prompto hugs him, because that’s just what Prompto does.


	104. year xvi | Prompto walking in on his dads doing something they shouldn't

* * *

_year xvi | Prompto walking in on his dads doing something they shouldn't_

* * *

 

“Fuck!” Nyx cried out, flailing back into Cor, trying to avoid a fictional attack that turned out to be the bright flash of a camera.

Cor, for his part, merely swore lowly and filthily under his breath, because he was standing by the edge of the roof and Nyx nearly unceremoniously shoved them both off the edge and sent them tumbling two whole floors into the garden.

Prompto let the camera drop and hang from the strap around his neck and gave them both a nightmare version of their own worst smug sneers hybridized into his still entirely too soft features… which looked surprisingly  _not_ soft at the moment.

“So,” Prompto said, eyebrows arched, “now that we’ve agreed that you have no moral ground to stand on,” he nodded at the lit cigarette Nyx had somehow not dropped in the process of getting the shit scared out of him. “…can I bum a hit of that?”


	105. year vi | Cor dealing with anti-Galahdian racists

* * *

_year vi | Cor dealing with anti-Galahdian racists_

* * *

 

While Nyx liked to tease him for the fact he’d been essentially immortalized - pun wholly, bitterly intended - as some kind of vicious, violent, irrational monstrosity barely bound to human shape that only the will of the King could hope to control, Cor was mostly okay with his public image.

It meant, for instance, that the amount of people who felt comfortable walking up to him and telling him stupid, vile things to his face, was blissfully, mercifully small. Almost non existent, even. It made Cor almost willing to pacify Sylvia’s need to micromanage his existence and attend her balls - all of them, every single one of them, in fact - because it gave him a good excuse to get leisurely drunk and run internal snide commentary on the members of court he disliked. Which, to be perfectly honest, was  _all of them_.

And still, despite the grisly, grandiose ridiculousness of it, his reputation couldn’t always save him.

“It must be very frustrating for you, Marshal,” Arcturius Mancipo, Cor’s current tormentor said, with the sneery tilt to his tone that made Cor’s skin crawl, “to see these… refugees devalue your efforts and your men’s hard work.” When Cor merely stared at him, Acturius snorted. “This so called Kingsglaive, fret not, Marshal, we’ll disband it yet.”

Cor took a moment to indulge in the childish, yet terribly cathartic fantasy of taking out his sword and stabbing Mancipo’s face until he felt better. He’d get away with it, too, if he did go through with it. It was part and parcel of being who he was, the knowledge and the weight of that knowledge.

Regis probably didn’t realize exactly what he’d done to him, with his ridiculous attempts to reward him for his service, if only because he lived under the weight and knowledge of an entire country.

“No,” Cor said, flat and sharp and utterly void of emotion, because all his emotions were pulling desperately towards what felt more and more like righteous slaughter the more he thought about it, which was why he wasn’t thinking about it. “I sincerely doubt it.”

“Surely-”

“I’m sorry, Lord Mancipo, perhaps we can continue this once you’ve discarded your Niflheim sympathies or at least have the decency to keep them private, I’d loathe to arrest you on treason charges.”

Cor delivered the deadpan as casually and carelessly as he could and took a not insignificant amount of pleasure in watching Mancipo’s face flush til it was purple.

“I will not stand for my loyalties being questioned, Marshal!” He snapped back, eyes narrowed and lips trembling with outrage.

Cor stared down his nose at him. Mancipo’s loudness meant he had the entire room’s attention on him, when he spoke next. He wanted to swear and hiss and tell the pompous shithead to go die in a fire.

But Sylvia had taught him better than that, and there were, he knew, other ways to injure a man, to make him bleed in despair, than merely ending his already miserable existence.

“Forgive me, but did you not just clamor for disbanding Lucis’ military forces? The very military forces that effectively  _won the war_  for us? A war worth centuries of needless death and destruction? How else am I to take that comment but as a display of treasonous sympathies?” Cor clung to his indifference as best he could. “Excuse me, I believe the King needs me.”

It didn’t last, of course, the scorn and the gossip. It didn’t last. It didn’t change Mancipo’s mind at all. It was but an inconvenience calculated into the normal toiling and boiling of the court, the intrigues and the backstabbing. But it made Mancipo uncomfortable and was unpleasant for him to deal with and that was enough for a moment. It was the best Cor could do under the circumstances, at least, so he told himself it was enough, and then later back at home, he laid on an empty bed and waited impatiently for Nyx to come home.


	106. year xxxvii | When do Cor/Nyx retire and why?

* * *

_year xxxvii | When do Cor/Nyx retire and why?_

* * *

 

“I knew it was coming,” Nyx says, sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk. “I thought I was… ready for it.”

The room has changed a lot, over the years. First it was Prompto’s, and then Prompto left, and they’d kept it closed but whole, the same way they’d done for Aranea, when  _she_  left. Aranea had come back, eventually, and settled back into the house and the routines of it, with them. Prompto had not. And when the twins were born and they were figuring out space, it was Prompto who offered his room to them, moving himself fully into the Citadel.

It made sense, in Nyx’s head, to let the twins have Prompto’s room. It was a child’s room, in his head. Had always been. He remembered, in fact, he’d told Cor that, the first time they’d visited the house. And Cor had made a quip and teased him for it, and then placed his hand on the small of his back and hooked his chin of his shoulder like it somehow made it better.

“I wasn’t,” Cor says, leaning on the desk, back to the window, and that poor, poor desk, the many million things it has survived. “Ready. I wasn’t ready for it.”

“I know,” Nyx replies, soft laughter buried into his hands, because the alternative is to start screaming and never really stop.”I meant it. At the funeral, I meant it. I want to go.”

Cor doesn’t say, I meant it too. There in the quiet of a lazy late morning on a school day, with light tracing patterns on the floor from the small, old cactuar decals on the window panes… 

“May I go with you, then?” He asks, raw and quiet and broken like a hairline fracture right across his soul.

And Nyx remembers, with the same of forgotten selfishness, that Cor’s son is dead too. His world is crumbling too. And he’s always woefully inadequate to react, when this happens, so he just does what he’s always done: put that selfishness to good use, and try to sink Cor into the marrow of his bones.

“Of course you’re coming with me,” he promises, lips against the short, still fuzzy edges of Cor’s head, because he’d just cut his hair and Prompto had just run his hands through it, before… “We’re going, you and I, because you promised to take me home, and I promised to never leave you behind.”


	107. year xviii | paperwork

* * *

_year xviii | paperwork_

* * *

 

Prompto is very popular with the Kingsglaive. It sounds silly to say it like that, because it’s not quite like saying he was popular with girls, for example - though he is, because he is sweet and kind and the Prince’s best friend, and Harit had the unenviable task of explaining to him what a fanclub even  _is_. Prompto is very popular with the Kingsglaive because he’s Nyx’s son and that carries more weight there, than admitting he’s Cor’s among the Crownsguard. The Kingsglaive are Galahdians, after all, and they expect things of him, like they expect things of his father, of his sister. The Crownsguard sees him and wonders if anything he’s got is truly his own, not a loophole away from being free.

Prompto is very popular with the Kingsglaive and that’s mostly because he’s good at taking selfies when most people really wouldn’t. It’s a game of sorts they play, giving him chances to take snapshots and then writing entire reports around them, just for the sake of watching their Commander’s face when he reads them.

It’s Luche and Aranea who’re tasked with escorting Prompto around the wilderness, while he’s doing whatever it is he does - the Kingsglaive is focused on full brunt assaults and displays of magic to put the fear of Lucis into the hearts of their enemies, they’re feral and brutal and reckless, and so they don’t really know what the whole saboteur business entitles, except that it’s quiet  and sneaky and if anyone dies it automatically means something’s gone wrong. They also assume the Crownsguard gets it better, but the truth is the Crownsguard is every bit as brash and reckless and focused on grandiose, big statements to really understand what is it that Prompto - and his mother before him, and the scattered dozen others in the past twenty years - does. But still, the Kingsglaive argues and chatters, and sometimes Prompto is treated to something other than his sister and his not!brother-in-law for a change.

Nyx reads the Kingsglaive reports and then shares them with Cor, who reads Prompto’s, and they drink with the quiet acceptance that this is the son they’ve raised, so they might as well not complain.


	108. year viii | protective dad!Cor

* * *

_year viii | protective dad!Cor_

* * *

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Cor says, voice deceptively light and very much not deadpan, like he’s offering sincere advice.

Which he is, in a way. He looks up from his book to the angry looking young man that’s been walking in nervous, awkward circles around the section of the park where Prompto and his friends have parked themselves in to play. It was less noticeable when they were running all over the place, chasing each other and trying to tackle each other down at any chance they got. But then Pelna’s oldest boy pulled out a giant box of cards from his bag, shyly not looking at Cor as he did, because they have this agreement that so long as no one draws attention to it, no one will have to acknowledge the fact that Cor the Immortal is sitting on a bench in the park, sitting next to a not insignificant pile of schoolbags and decidedly not watching over them.

Now they’re all clustered around the box, sharing the hissing, excited whispers that usually prelude loud, shrieking laughter.

“What?” The boy - he’s seventeen at most, probably, all long limbs and awkward gait and the kind of vicious anger in the twist of his mouth that still hasn’t figure out what to do with himself or the world or both - asks, blinking and for a moment looking exactly as young as Cor thinks he is, but then his face scrunches up again, eyes narrowed and lips pulled back into a half snarl. “What did you say?”

“That thing,” Cor explains, closing the book and bookmarking the page with one finger, while he points with his free hand right at the boy’s face. “That stupid, pointless, cruel thing you’re thinking of right now. I wouldn’t do it, if I were you.” The boy flushes, angry and embarrassed and Cor offers a tiny not-smile, lips pulled sideways enough the tip of a fang catches on his lower lip. “I know for a fact one of the parents involved is wantonly violent and not very forgiving at all.”

“…yeah?” The boy asks, licking his lips, shifting his weight and trying to assess Cor properly, and he’s got this look on his face now, the itch that he knows Cor’s face but can’t exactly place where from. “You don’t say.”

Cor arches an eyebrow at him.

“I do say,” he replies, “go home and do drugs or something equally asinine, that at least won’t kill you quite as painfully.”

The boy barks a laugh. It’s high-strung and awkward.

“They’re just Galahdians,” the boy says, in the rehearsed tones of someone who’s grown up hearing it. “Fuck it, they’re not worth it.”

Cor doesn’t disagree with words. His expression probably does. His expression does something without his permission because the boy stares and stares and stares, and Cor knows precisely the moment it clicks, because he breaks into a dead run without saying a word.

Cor goes back to his book and unclenches his teeth one at the time.


	109. year xii | Aranea's reaction to Prompto's braid being cut

* * *

_year xii | Aranea's reaction to Prompto's braid being cut_

* * *

 

“…I need someone to sit on me.”

There’s a moment of loud, awkward silence around the fire as Aranea stares at her phone with a deceptively calm look on her face.

“…why?” Wedge asks, because Wedge always asks, he’s the designated brave man who ventures forth and tries to figure out what their boss is thinking when she goes quiet and murderous and they’re not entirely sure they’re about to become collateral damage.

“Because I’m rational enough to know mass murder is not exactly the solution but it’d be so fucking  _cathartic_ right now,” Aranea explains, eyes narrowed and mouth tilted down and there’s another moment of silence before she’s getting smothered under a pile of sweaty, dirty mercs and she laughs, low and mean and Bigg’s head is buried into the back of her neck and this is fine.

It’s all  _fine_.

By the time she gets to Hammerhead, she’s almost willing to ask questions first, commit gross violence second.

Almost.


	110. year xix | cor and nyx coming to terms with their parenting skills

* * *

_year xix | cor and nyx coming to terms with their parenting skills_

* * *

 

Cor held the phone up so Nyx could see it clearly from his perch in his lap, the precise moment Prompto went from laughing sheepishly to tilting his weight back on his seat and then unrepentantly sinking the sole of his foot into someone’s face. Said someone then crumpled to the ground, while Prompto stared down disdainfully, very clearly not in the mood to help.

Nyx whistled.

“Ouch,” he said, snorting, “that looks like it hurt.”

“Thoroughly broken, yes,” Cor muttered dispassionately.

“And he won’t tell you what they said,” Nyx guessed, eyebrows arched as the recording reached an end and began replaying automatically. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Cor agreed, the corner of his lip twitching as he saw caught the flash of boiling temper in Prompto’s eyes the split second before he moved.

“Except you already know what they were saying,” Nyx went on, squinting up at Cor, “don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Cor shrugged slowly and finally clicked the phone off, dropping it on the couch with a sigh.

“Nea, mostly.”

Nyx arched both eyebrows, and then snorted.

“You owe me lunch, you know,” he said, grinning wryly as Cor gave him a dubious look for his trouble. Nyx laughed. “’cause I told you, he takes after you.” His grin widened when Cor made a small, huffing noise that might or might not have been embarrassment. “Gets territorial about his family and punches first, asks questions maybe never, when he’s pissed.”

“Hn,” said Cor, wrinkling his nose slightly because he was the very soul of sense and sensibility, clearly.


	111. year viii | What does Cor do with the bead from the Walk?

* * *

_year viii | What does Cor do with the bead from the Walk?_

* * *

 

Nyx tells him, in that facetious tone of his, the one that Cor’s never really sure he’s managed to decode properly, that he should grow his hair out for it.

It feels wrong.

He rolls the bead on his knuckles, the cool-yet-warm-yet-dead-yet-very-much-alive pulse of it tingling on the skin of his fingers, while he plays with it like it were a coin.

A lot of things about Galahd feel wrong, because he’s since learned enough about it to feel like he shouldn’t… like he just shouldn’t, period, every possible action discordant and unfair. He wants to ask but also doesn’t, because it feels terribly, hopelessly selfish to ask any more of Nyx, than he’s already given.

“You don’t  _have_ to,” Libertus says, after Cor invites him out for drinks to test a theory - the theory is Libertus would accept, now, even though Cor knows he wouldn’t have, last week - and they drink weird, craft beer that Cor knows he couldn’t pay Nyx enough to risk trying, because Nyx drinks beer to get drunk, not to see how far away from beer one can take beer and still get to call it beer. Libertus is more willing to experiment, mostly because he’s on board to drinking and not having to pay for it. “I think you should, anyway. Only proper.”

“Maybe,” Cor says, unconvinced, and inside his pocket he can feel the weight of it, heavy and… and almost comforting, in a strange way he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask.

“You should come over,” Libertus adds, not looking at him, sounding perfectly bored, “on Saturday. I’m making curry.”

Cor considers explaining he’s not particularly fond of anything spicier than bland oatmeal, but then, there’s also his answer to those itching questions, too.

“Sure,” he says, because Libertus is Nyx’s brother, and deep down, really deep down, there’s part of him that’s basking in the approval suddenly being given to him, because he’s so very tired of arguing with people who think he shouldn’t love and be loved by the people he does.

It’s Crowe, surprisingly, who takes his side.

Kind of.

“You don’t have a face that’d look good with long hair,” she says, placing a lock of her own hanging off the side of Cor’s face and making tiny huffing noises as she thinks. “So maybe, jewelry?” Cor stares at her but doesn’t actually ask the question. It feels stupid. Crowe must think so too, because she snorts. “Oh, for… give me your hand, you dumb moron, it won’t bite,” she says, and guides Cor’s hand to fist close around the bead. “Now ask it politely to let you wear it.” 

Cor stares again, possibly squinting.

Crowe stares back.

“Are you two okay over there?” Nyx asks, poking his head out of the clustered kitchen corner where he’s helping Libertus throw lunch together.

“Yes,” Cor and Crowe reply back, in unison, and then snort when Nyx actually walks over to squint suspiciously at both, before going back to work.

“You want me to ask it to let me wear it?” Cor asks,  eyebrows arched and hoping he’s coming across exactly as disgruntled as he feels, rather than mocking.

“Well, it’s not like you can put a drill to it,” Crowe points out, snorting. “You probably get smitten for that, or something. I don’t know, none of us is dumb enough to do that. So we just… ask.”

Cor’s lips twitch sideways for a second, and then he sighs. Then he startles, just a little, as he feels the twitch in his hand. When he opens it, there’s the bead, sky blue as when he got it, but now there’s a small hole running through it, just big enough to slide hair or thread through it.

“Our God happens to not be an idiot,” Crowe says smugly, dropping to sit on Cor’s right. “So there you go.”

Cor hums in the back of his throat, considering, and then laughs when Nyx comes back, five minutes later, with offerings of beer and a very suspicious look on his face.

“You two are getting along,” he points out, like he did not expect or entirely approve of that, and then he snorts when Crowe grabs one of Cor’s arms and unceremoniously wraps it around her shoulders, “I’m not sure I like that.”

“It’s fine,  _mother_ ,” Crowe snickers, because Cor lets her, “anything we set on fire probably had it coming.”

“ _Probably_ ,” Cor agrees, before Nyx can open his mouth and contest that.

He decides, in the end, to weave it into the handle of his favorite sword. It’s not properly Galahdian of him, but it’s something he would do. Wrapped in there, is where he keeps his secrets and his prayers. So he places Ramuh’s bead alongside one of the bone die Weskham used to gamble with, a silver Tenebrae coin celebrating the Oracle’s ascension that Regis gave him the day they became friends, the Amicitia family ring which Clarus gave him for safekeeping and never bothered to ask back for, and a braid of two distinct kinds of blond hair that Cid told him to hold onto lest Cid burned it in a fit of temper. 

It seems… well, it seems like the right thing to do.


	112. year xi | quiet cuddle time

* * *

_year xi | quiet cuddle time_

* * *

 

“C’mon,” Nyx whispered, voice carefully quiet, as he crouched down by the couch, “work with me here, okay?”

Cor made a low, grumbling noise in the back of his throat, but let Nyx sneak a hand under his neck to help cradle his head up. He looked pretty damn miserable, Nyx thought sympathetically, and he must have felt to match, considering he was being docile. Cor was only ever docile, in his experience, when he’d given up on everything because he was tired and possibly hurt, or because Nyx had managed to literally fuck him into a sated smear of stupid. (Okay, so maybe that had happened once. Once was still enough for Nyx to know it was possible and a goal worth pursuing. Obviously.)

He passed Cor the pills and the glass of water and gave up resisting temptation to press his mouth to the crown of his head when Cor swallowed the pills and stared stubbornly into nothing, clearly waiting them to work instantly. He made a little inquiring noise when Nyx startled gently shuffling him around, so he could sit on the couch and let Cor rest his head in his lap.

“Lunch break,” Nyx lied soothingly, letting his fingers card through short hair as Cor seemed to give up arguing and instead buried his face into his thigh, groaning miserably.

If the choice was staying here and nursing Cor’s cranky migraine, and going  back to work and getting one of his own… well, that wasn’t a choice at all, now, was it?


	113. year xii | Sassypants On Fire

* * *

_year xii | Sassypants On Fire_

* * *

 

Cor stares at the cat.

The cat stares right back.

It’s an ugly thing, too. Fluffy and mismatched and absolutely not at all like what he’s been lead to believe actual cute cats look like. Prompto loves it, though, so Cor guesses he’s not supposed to judge. It’s sprawled on the little blanket they keep by the living room because the nights are getting cold and the door out into the garden is almost always open, and Cor is the kind of person who wraps himself up in a blanket if he’s cold, thank you very much, he doesn’t have a lot of things to prove to anyone at this point even if it never fails to give Nyx an excuse to crack a joke about his age. 

Out of curiosity, really, nothing more, Cor reaches a hand and tugs on the blanket.

The cat remain where it is, sprawled and and uncaring, only slightly tumbling sideways when Cor tugs a little more. If he couldn’t see the damn thing breathing, he’d worry about it being dead. Even when Cor drops the tip of the blanket on top of it, he gets nothing more than a bleary stare for his trouble, before the cat goes back to sleep again.

He tells himself it’s not really mean if the cat is not complaining. The lady at the shelter told them they’d know right away if they did anything the cat didn’t like. She’d sounded terribly ominous about it, too. Cor tugs a little more on the blanket.

Two hours later, Nyx finds him with his face buried in his hands, trying to choke back a cackle, lest he disturbs the cat currently rolled up in the blanket and snoring - Cor hadn’t known cats  _snored_ \- to his heart content.

“What?” Nyx asks, warily.

Cor stares at him for a moment, and snorts, pointing at the cat.

“What is this?” He asks, eyebrows arched.

“…animal cruelty?” Nyx guesses, head tilted to the side.

Cor snickers.

“It’s a purrito,” he deadpans, though it’s chaffing a bit, the way it does whenever he’s been sitting on a really good pun for entirely too long.

Nyx stares blankly a moment and then gives a full body flinch as if struck.

“Nope,” he decides, turning around and leaving without looking back.

Cor finds out, as he breaks down cackling, that he needn’t have worried about the cat.

The cat, very clearly, does not give a shit. About anything. Cor likes it already.


	114. year xix | Regis joking Nyx is the real reason Cor is Immortal these days

* * *

_year xix | Regis joking Nyx is the real reason Cor is Immortal these days_

* * *

 

“You two can fuck off,” Cor muttered crankily, slowly melting under the weight of painkillers and pressing his face into Nyx’s thigh.

“It’s the fourth time this year,” Nyx points out lightly, so very lightly were Cor sober he’d be feeling every hair in his body stand on end at that tone, but he wasn’t, so he just groaned when Nyx fingered the hair at the back of his neck. “I think I’m entitled to some bitching about this.”

“It hasn’t been the nicest year for him, admittedly,” the King said, frowning slightly, though he still gave Nyx that little smile of his that meant he approved of… whatever it was Nyx was doing at the time, which often involved Cor.

“Is this what people call a midlife crisis?” Nyx asked teasingly, arching an eyebrow at the King as Cor sank into unconsciousness with a sigh.

“I think it’s the universe feeling like he’s got to earn the moniker all over again, more like,” Regis replied, shaking his head. “Though I gave him that name because he was a spiteful little shit.” He snorted. “These days I get the feeling he clings on for someone’s sake, instead.”

Nyx shrugged carefully, looking away and trying not to feel embarrassed.

“He’s still a spiteful little shit if you ask me,” he muttered, ignoring the slight heat on his face.


	115. year vi | revenge

* * *

_year vi | revenge_

* * *

 

“I mean, is this  _really_ necessary?” Nyx asks, leaning on the table and watching Cor work with an arched eyebrow. “We did traumatize the man, that one time.”

Cor looked up from his slow, methodical sawing, and snorted.

“Yes.”

“And you’re absolutely sure you’re not overreacting at all,” Nyx points out.

“Nyx?” Cor says, giving him a dry look, “shut up.”

“Fine, fine,” Nyx snorts, “far be for me to point out the fact you’re acting five years old. You’re a cute five year old.”


	116. year xiii | Cor getting fucked in the backseat of the Regalia

* * *

_year xiii | Cor getting fucked in the backseat of the Regalia_

* * *

 

They haven’t seen each other in  _weeks_.

It’s not Regis’ fault - it is, it’s his goddamn orders they’re following, but it’s also not his fault, because they signed up to follow said orders - and he probably didn’t realize how fantastically he’d cockblocked them, with his request that they took his son back home to safety.

“This is a terrible idea,” Cor murmurs, voice low and breathy to the exact extent to let Nyx know exactly how much he’s been missed.

“Uh huh,” Nyx whispered, smile pulled sideways as he slid a condom over Cor’s dick, because for once in their lives they were going to have to not make a horrid mess. It was almost a challenge. “I’d believe you if you weren’t hard and ready to go already, Marshal.”

Cor’s reply turned into a growl and bared teeth, when Nyx slid two fingers into him rather unceremoniously. He took them beautifully - he took everything beautifully, always, in Nyx’s not so humble opinion - thighs twitching but unable to open wider because he still had his pants caught somewhere above his knees. Nyx rolled his fingers inside him, until Cor’s hands were grabbing onto the seat and the backrest, fingers clenched tight.

“Maybe you’re right,” Nyx mused, wiping his fingers in the little indent where Cor’s thigh melted into his torso, because it was one of the most sensitive patches of skin on Cor and made him moan every single time. “Maybe I should wait until we’re home,” he said, even as he nudged Cor not at all subtly and helped him roll on the seat, because it was easier that way. “Fuck you nice and long the way you like it.”

Cor made a very rude gesture with one hand, as he rested his head on his folded arms. When Nyx fell on him, he absolutely did not complain.


	117. year xiii |  Nyx and Cor being caught misbehaving by Regis?

* * *

_year xiii |  Nyx and Cor being caught misbehaving by Regis?_

* * *

 

Cor walks out of the car first, tugging at his shirt and his pants with that awkward nervousness of nothing really fitting right and trying very hard to pretend otherwise. He relaxes a little, when Nyx comes out a moment later, thoroughly disheveled and owning it without a care, and then tilts his head slightly when Nyx pulls him close enough to kiss him. Cor wraps an arm around Nyx’s waist as they start walking towards the door, fingers hooked possessively on a belt loop.

It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever to Regis, that anyone would see the two and not realize how very much they’re into each other. It’s almost cute, he thinks, if nothing else because Cor is a prickly, cranky thing and to see him be openly affectionate with someone is always weirdly sweet.

They’re still assholes, though.

“Had fun?” Regis asks them, as they walk slowly past his perch on some stairs, casually hidden from view by the lack of lights above his head.

Oh, the look of absolute miserable dread in Cor’s face is worth it.


	118. year xviii | Prompto being badass and people not knowing how to handle it

* * *

_year xviii | Prompto being badass and people not knowing how to handle it_

* * *

 

“I’m gonna need you to drop the shield, on three,” Prompto says, in a surprisingly even and not at all panicked voice.

Luche, holding up said shield against a fire breathing monstrosity of a snake that he’s very sure he’s not being paid enough to deal with, stares.

“Um, no,” he tries, feeling his knees shake slightly when the bulk of the damn thing hits the shield and threatens to drive him to the ground, “how about no?”

Luche gets the weirdest, most uncomfortable deja vu, when Prompto gives him a dry look - he doesn’t look anything like Ulric, and yet - and very pointedly rolls his eyes.

“Just trust me,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “On three. One…”

Luche swallows hard.

“We’re going to die,” he says, but drops the shield when Prompto hits three.

Prompto pulls out a rocket launcher - Luche is not sure he wants to know from where, exactly - and shoots point blank at the snake’s open jaws as it inhales to belch some more fire at them. It goes exactly as videogames have taught Luche to expect it to go.

Though that last thought might be just because Prompto hums a little victory fanfare when the snake collapses at their feet.

“Easy, right?” Prompto says, giving him two thumbs up with a grin.

Luche scowls at him and resists the urge to shudder rather violently.


	119. year xvi | Regis trolling Noctis

* * *

_year xvi | Regis trolling Noctis_

* * *

 

“And they haven’t realized this,” Sylva mused with an arched eyebrow, leaning to look at the screen on Regis’ desk.

“Miraculously, they have not,” Regis points out.

“And you don’t think this is a terrible thing you’re doing,” she said, head tilted to the side and teasing smile tugging at her lips.

“My dear, if he can’t have civilized arguments with online unknowns, he’s never going to survive having a council.”

Sylva pondered that for a moment before she was forced to admit Regis had a point.

“So what are you arguing with him about?” She asked, and gave up pretenses, leaning to half sit at the edge of the desk.

It was terribly uncouth and undignified and the scandal, should anyone see them like that, would be endless. But then, this was Regis’ informal office, and the only one who could barge in unannounced was his Shield. Clarus was many things, but at least he wasn’t one to give them grief for this. If anything, he’d be delighted to join in.

“Historical accuracy in the Assassin’s Creed videogame series,” Regis replied with a small twitch of lips, and gave her a small smirk, “he feels very strongly about that.”

Sylva snorted a very unladylike snort at the wall of profanity that instantly populated Regis’ screen.

“I can see that, yes.” And then, “wasn’t one of yours an actual assassin, though?”

“My great-grandfather nearly bankrupted the kingdom paying to clear the Rogue Queen’s name, so I am very much not going to answer that.”

“Fair,” Sylva laughed, shaking her head. “But does he know that?”

Regis gave her an amused look.

“Only one way to find out, I suppose…”


	120. year xx | Nyx and Cor react to the Angelus fight

* * *

_year xx | Nyx and Cor react to the Angelus fight_

* * *

 

“So the good news,” Prompto says into the phone, curled up into a tiny little ball some eighty feet off the ground, nested on a branch of a massive tree, and not… not freaking out, not yet. Not quite. “The really good news, is that the Angelus does have range limitations and they’re not as outrageous as we thought they were.”

“That’s the good news,” Nyx replies, in a strangled voice, echoing because he’s on speaker and they’re near a river somewhere, given the ambient noise.

“Why do you know this?” Cor asks, very carefully, very calmly, and Prompto closes his eyes, dropping his chin on his knees and shudders in slow motion for the sake of not falling to pieces.

“It’s three miles,” Prompto says, muffled by the hand against his mouth, trying to cram a scream back in. “For the record. Three miles before it’ll give up on a priority target. 1.3 miles before it commits to a single moving target over a stationary one, if both are coded priority targets. And then three miles, after that, before it gives up and goes back to MT hell and eats some more puppies or whatever the fuck the goddamn abomination does in its spare time, because fucking hell, it has actual liquid nitrogen rounds, who the fuck puts liquid nitrogen rounds into a mech!”

“Where are you?” Nyx asks, over the sound of Cor’s voice, gone infinitely quiet, whispering his name.

“That’s classified, sir,” Prompto replies, sniffling and rubbing his nose furiously to hold it back, because not yet, not yet. “Need to know basis only, this isn’t need to know.”

“Prompto,” Cor says, again, a little louder, a little stronger, and Prompto sways on his perch, eighty feet above the ground, and wow, that’d be bad, that’d kill him for sure, if he fell.

“I didn’t kill the Angelus, and the Angelus didn’t kill me. I’d call it a tie, but that’d just invite a rematch and honestly,  _fuck that shit_ ,” Prompto says, as bright and bubbly as he can make his voice, which isn’t much, but it counts for something. “Permission to swear loudly and creatively, sir.”

“Granted,” Cor snorts, around the same time Nyx says, strangled, “ _Prompto_.”

“This isn’t a personal call,” Prompto says, because then maybe then he’ll believe it, “honest. Just figured you’d like to know that we were wrong. It  _is_ possible to outrun the fucker. You’ll probably still want him to catch you before you’re done, if only to put a stop to it. But it’s doable. Totally. It’s my job, right? Get the scoop and all the juicy details and give them to someone who can do something about it. So here I am, doing my job.” And then, very quietly, very brokenly, “please be proud of me.”

“I am so proud of you,” Cor says, straight out, without hesitation.

“Unspeakably proud,” Nyx says, and his voice breaks at the end and it doesn’t matter, doesn’t make it lesser, because he adds, “but you’re still fucking grounded, Prom.” Prompto chokes on a high pitched giggle, hissing it between his teeth. “Did we not fucking tell you to stay the hell away from that thing?”

“I know,” Prompto says, and it’s wet around the edges and down his nose. He rubs it again. “I know. I’ll do community service when we get home.”

Oh god, please let’s just go home, he doesn’t say, because he signed up for this, all of it, and he knew what he was doing and what was coming and now he doesn’t get to take it back. He doesn’t get to take it back.

“Grounded til you’re forty,” Nyx insists, laughter sharp like a corkscrew, digging in deep because he also says, “I love you.”

“I love you both,” Prompto whispers, the one certainty he has here, “I’ll see you soon.”

He won’t. They know he won’t. He still says it anyway, because deep beneath the platitudes - I love you, see you soon - is a mountain of truth he needs to weight him down until he feels somewhat anchored in the now.

“Take care of yourself,” Nyx tells him, very careful not to tell him to be safe, because Prompto is a soldier and so are his fathers, and they all know better now.

“Prompto,” Cor says, quiet and endless and if Prompto could, he’d go hide behind him, curl up against his side and let the world try to go through him to get him. “Good job.”

Prompto laughs and hangs up, lest they hear the precise moment he starts crying for real.


	121. year xx | Prom macguyvering a weapon/explosives, to the slightly unnerved stares of evertyone else? ‘How is *that* weaponizable!!??’

* * *

_year xx | Prom macguyvering a weapon/explosives, to the slightly unnerved stares of evertyone else? ‘How is *that* weaponizable!!??’_

* * *

 

“Everyone, fall back!” Prompto hollered from the corner where he’d holed up with Luna and Noct’s still very much unconscious form.

That usually preluded a bazooka intervention, so even Ravus deigned to disengage the large contingent of MT troopers - three full shipfuls of them - and back away. Prompto, however, was still very much out of rounds for that kind of stuff. Instead he threw several objects at the group of deadly quiet troopers, small and white, almost like paper bags, which the MTs immediately sliced in midair before it could hit them. When they broke, they released a bright white powder into the air.

“…is that my flour?” Ignis asked in a strangled, outraged tone.

“I’ll replace them!” Prompto promised, and shot at the sizable cloud of white dust that the MTs were further kicking up by regrouping and preparing to strike back.

They never got a chance.

“That was  _flour_?” Gladio demanded after a moment, once their ears stopped ringing and charred MT bits and pieces stopped raining all around them.

“Breakfast gone a rye, it seems,” Ignis replied, with a perfectly straight face. “No pancakes for you, Prompto. Or anyone else, for that batter.”

“Can you not,” Ravus demanded, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Dough you mean donut?” Luna asked brightly, head poking from behind the rather large boulder that had shielded her from the explosion.

“ _Flour_ ,” Gladio insisted, when he realized that everyone was ignoring this crucial bit of information. “You made a bomb out of  _flour_.”

“You can make a bomb out of anything, really,” Prompto pointed out with a grin, “I mean, if you’re committed enough, probably!”

Noct chose precisely that moment to groan in pain, and then their phones buzzed in their pockets. That killed the mood pretty effectively.

“We should push onwards, while it’s still light outside,” Ignis pointed out, as Gladio picked up Noctis with ease.

“Flour,” he repeated, shaking his head slightly.

“That was impressive,” Ravus told Prompto, as they picked up the pace once more, leaving - thankfully - Ravatogh behind them. “I’m surprised you decided to actually join a fight for once, perhaps this success will encourage you to consider-”

“Oh,  _shut up_ , Ravus.”


	122. year xvii | Cor, Nyx and marriage

* * *

_year xvii | Cor, Nyx and marriage_

* * *

 

“I’m so glad I didn’t listen to Monica,” Cor muses, scratching Nyx’s scalp between the braids and staring at his convoluted family registry.

“I’m going to hate myself for asking,” Nyx snorts, eyes half lidded, “but why?”

“Remember when we first moved in together, and you were dead and penniless and I first made you co-signer of my bank account?”

Nyx buried his face into Cor’s neck, humming in the back of his throat.

“Vaguely,” he said, lips twitching.

“Monica advised me to register you as my brother, at the time,” Cor pointed out, snorting, “to sidestep the bureaucracy.”

“…and you didn’t,” Nyx guessed, head tilted back so he could stare at Cor with a squint, “ _obviously_.”

“I didn’t,” Cor said, shaking his head. “So on the bright side, I don’t have to disown you before I marry you.”

“…I don’t like the implication that there’s a not-bright side to this,” Nyx pointed out,  squint deepening as Cor sighed.

“The not bright side is that you don’t  _have_ a registry entry. So this is actually going to be a bloody mess.” Cor made sure Nyx was looking at him in the eye when he added: “And once more, incest would have been the kinder option.”

Nyx choked on a high-pitched, disgruntled cackle.

“You’re taking flowers to Aulea's grave in the morning, just for that.”


	123. year xix | Dino/Prompto smut

* * *

_year xix | Dino/Prompto smut_

* * *

 

“See,” Prompto said, voice trembling in tune with his thighs as he held himself in place, one hand holding Dino’s cock still, the other wound into Dino’s hair, “you put the camera right on top the mirror, yeah? Angle it right so you focus on the reflection, get… ah, get swept by it, but you also get the best shots.”

Dino made a warbling, wanton noise in the back of his throat, which only rose in volume and pitch when Prompto started to slide down his dick, thighs and calves tense and showing off the ropes of muscle that hid under his skin.

“You’ve done this before,” Dino said, tone all over the place, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to accuse or demand or ask or just bask in the wonder of it.

“Oh, no, never,” Prompto laughed, slumping back as he sat on Dino’s hips, his own cock red and leaking, because Dino sat nicely inside him, at that angle. “I mean, not… not fucked to get taped, no. Done the taping, though? Yeah, tons.” He laughed the tiny, giggly laugh that Dino was sure he was going to hear the day he died and got herded straight into hell. “Lots and lots of taping.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Dino whispered, fingers digging until his nails were leaving tiny, red crescent marks on Prompto’s thighs.

“Not really,” Prompto snorted, and started to roll his hips, head tilted back against Dino’s shoulder, “old, fat Lords cheating on their wives is not as sexy as you’d think.”

Dino buried hysterical laughter into his back.

“Any chance you’d feel like sharing names?”

Prompto let gravity do its thing, and took in Dino as deep as he’d go.

“Nope.”


	124. year xxi | Prompto and magic

* * *

_year xxi | Prompto and magic_

* * *

 

“This is a terrible idea,” Prompto told no one in particular, and shrugged when he got a barrage of dirty looks for his trouble. “Look, there’s a reason I joined the Crownsguard and not the Kingsglaive, it’s all I’m saying!”

He got nailed in the head with the butt of a dagger.

“That’s ‘cause you’re a no-good traitor, that’s why!” Aranea snarled at him, and summoned the dagger back to her hand. “Anyway, listen up, kids, I’m gonna teach you how to do a magic trick. And you’re gonna  _like_ it.”

“No,” Prompto muttered into the floor, resisting the urge to whimper, “we’re going to  _die_.”

By the end of the first day, most of the Crownsguard-turned-Kingsglaive shared his sentiment very keenly.

Then Tredd took over their training, when Cor caught wind of Aranea threatening to stab the worst performers of the group. It wasn’t much of an improvement, really.

At least, Prompto thought gloomily, it wasn’t Luche.

Luche was the worst.


	125. year x | Cor making Nyx's favorite food to cheer him up

* * *

_year x | Cor making Nyx's favorite food to cheer him up_

* * *

 

“Libertus is going to kill you,” Nyx blurted out in a hushed whisper, eyes wide, as Cor passed a bowl into his hands.

It wasn’t  _quite_ right. The sauce was thicker and the smell just a sliver different, but the color was spot on and Nyx didn’t even mind the ghost of something sweet - of fucking course there was a ghost of something sweet in it, Cor made it - in the back of his throat, hidden somewhere beneath the kick of heat and spice.

“I’m well aware,” Cor murmured, sitting at the edge of the bed and watching Nyx demolish the bowl one spoonful at the time. He shrugged awkwardly. “My life’s in your hands now, I guess.”

It wasn’t the same, not quite. Probably because Cor didn’t have an actual recipe to work with, and also because Libertus had an entire cabinet of unlabeled spices that he used without measuring. But it was close enough, so very close, and it sat warm and kind in the pit of Nyx’s belly, held there by something stupidly, ridiculously happy because Cor made it, for him, and that meant a lot.

A lot.

“I guess it’ll have to be our little secret then,” he said, tugging Cor close to press his lips to the underside of his jaw, because Cor hated spicy food with a violent passion and Nyx knew he’d rather not kiss him right now. Which was ridiculous and stupid and just… “I love you.”

“Hn,” Cor said, because of course he did.


	126. year x | Nyx attempts phonesex

* * *

_year x | Nyx attempts phonesex_

* * *

 

“I’m bored,” Nyx said plaintively, and Cor could imagine the slight pout to go with that tone, the one that always invited him to lean in and catch Nyx’s bottom lip with his fangs until he was moaning instead.

“The tragedy,” Cor deadpanned, eyebrows arched as he stared at a wall of cereal boxes and tried to remember which one Prompto was obsessed with that month.

“That’s cold, Cor,” Nyx said, and Cor stopped, hand raised to grab one with a ridiculously bright mascot he assumed was meant to be a cat, but he wasn’t entirely sure, because that was Nyx’s mischievous tone and nothing good ever followed from that. Well, lost of good things followed from that, actually, but never the kind to be enjoyed in public. “You left me here, all alone and bored and stuck on this chair. What am I supposed to do with myself?”

Cor let out a very slow breath and placed the cereal box in the cart, walking a little more briskly around the store, because he had a feeling he absolutely should wrap up this errand at once.

“Not break your other leg?” Cor ventured, tone dubious, “hopefully?”

There was a hitch, in Nyx’s breathing. It was tiny and familiar and sank like a hook between Cor’s legs.

“I mean,” Nyx whispered, “I’m all alone in here.”

“I will hang up,” Cor hissed, staring at the cart half-full with groceries and suddenly feeling every eye in the store weighting on his back. “Nyx, I’m at the goddamn store. I will hang up.”

“I mean,” Nyx moaned, low and teasing, “if you have to. I’ll just sit here, lonely and bored and trying to entertain myself, by-”

Cor hung up.

Took a deep breath.

Swallowed hard.

“Fuck you,” he hissed into his phone, when it rang again, before he was done willing unruly, interested bits of his anatomy to behave themselves.

“I mean, okay,” Regis snorted, bewildered. “Uh. What did I do now?”

Cor spluttered and groaned and swore to strangle Nyx as soon as he got home.


	127. year ix | Tredd Furia, no regrets

* * *

_year ix | Tredd Furia, no regrets_

* * *

 

“There’s a word for the kind of idiot you are,” Luche hissed at him, nails digging into his face as his palm glowed green with magic.

It was the funny thing, about Luche, he was raw and vicious and an absolute bitch to fight against, but his magic was all about support. Tredd knew better than to poke fun about it, though. For one thing, because he’d seen one too many green kids make that mistake and then find out that if a shield was strong enough to withstand the worst of Crowe’s rage, it was also the sort of thing you definitely didn’t want to slam face first into.

For another, because the most ancient wisdom passed down through the ages in Galahd was to treat the medics right. You could fuck with your commanding officer, you could fuck with your squad. You did not fuck with the fucker in charge of sewing your guts back shut after you were dumb enough to get them torn wide open.

…then again, Tredd was Tredd.

“Love ya too, sweetheart,” he cooed at Luche, pausing enough to blow a kiss at him, because, as always, the teasing caused Luche’s face to flush all the way down his throat and up to the edge of his hair, and he spluttered like he’d choked on his own tongue.

Tredd cackled when Luche shoved his face into the mud, snarling at him and then warping away to go cover the Commander’s back like the good puppy he was. Tredd stayed there a moment longer, soaking on the itch of a new scar forming all across his face, and then he rolled back to his feet and went out there to ruin some daemon’s day… night.

“Lazarus,” the Commander snapped at Luche, when he’d taken almost too long to wrap Tredd in a shield, and then turned to look at Tredd in the eye and snorted. “Furia, why the fuck are you still here?”

“Punch with my hands, sir,” Tredd told him, grinning wide and bloody, “not with my face.”

The Commander laughed, shaking his head. Tredd almost liked him, the bastard. He was harsh right up until he wasn’t, and then he was a riot to be around. Kept them on their toes.

“That’s not what it looks like, kid,” he said, grinning at him, “from where I’m standing.”

“Shit happens,” Tredd replied, because it was true, and because it made the Commander snort a laugh.

“True that.”

Tredd didn’t regret the scar or the look on Luche’s face, anymore than he regretted sticking around to see the Commander take down a mutated kujata in four precise warpstrikes. Whatever else could be said, about Nyx Ulric, fucker could fight like the best of them.


	128. year xii | homemade stew

* * *

_year xii | homemade stew_

* * *

 

“Missing some pepper, I reckon,” Cid muttered, staring down at the pot with a thoughtful frown. “Kid.”

Prompto scurried to pass him the tiny plastic shaker, eyes wide. He immediately retreated back to the chair he’d been told to sit on, folding his arms under his chin, to prove without doubt that he wasn’t touching anything he shouldn’t.

“You’re not using a recipe,” Prompto pointed out, peering at Cid through his bangs.

“Recipe, shmecipe, this ain’t some fancy restaurant fare, it’s just some good ol’ stew,” Cid snorted and looked over his shoulder at Prompto, “what kind of dingus needs a recipe to make  _stew_?”

Prompto shrugged.

“Ignis says recipes guarantee quality and replic… replica…  _replicability_.”

“Right, right,” Cid replied, “me thinks this Ignis fella, well he’s got a two-by-four stuck up his ass.”

Prompto giggled.

“He’s my friend!” He said, nonetheless, because he felt he ought to defend him, at least a little. “I mean, mostly.”

“Either he is or he ain’t,” Cid retorted, and then added another dash of stuff from tiny canisters lined behind the stove. “Ain’t no half measures, when it comes to friendship. You learn that and you learn that  _well_ , kid. It’s the only thing worth learning, that.”


	129. year xiv | nerding out over their favourite deadly animal

* * *

_year xiv | nerding out over their favourite deadly animal_

* * *

 

“Holy fuck balls,” Prompto blurted out, blinking, as he caught sight of the massive black eye adorning a good half of Harit’s face. “What  _happened_?”

“He’s got a crush on Dana,” Scilpo deadpanned, rolling his eyes. “Because he’s an idiot.”

“I do not,” Harit snarled, face flushed, and then coughed, staring at Prompto. “I did the thing.”

“The thing,” Prompto repeated, squinting.

“He started deepthroating his foot in public again,” Scilpo explained, and then snickered when he got a smack upside the head for his trouble, and a threatening hiss from his older brother. “It was pretty dang epic, bro.” He snorted. “Epic  _fail_ , that is.”

“…nope, sorry, still lost,” Prompto snorted, and dropped to sit on the floor, on the large yellow pillow with a cartoonish chocobo face that the siblings kept in their otherwise darker colored room explicitly for him. “What the hell?”

“Some of the girls in class were being mean to Dana,” Harit explained, in his best I-am-sensible-and-absolutely-right-please-believe tone, and pushed the glasses up his nose. “Because she’s… on the heavier side. I chose to… intervene. Somewhat poorly.”

“That bitch from the general store call her a fat whale,” Scilpo translated, with none of the tact, “and then this idiot,” he added, pointing at his brother, “decided to go on a tangent about the evolutionary advantages that turned some whales into apex predators in their habitats.”

“Oh, Harit, no,” Prompto said, wincing.

“The insult needs only be an insult if you let it!” Harit insisted, flush permanently parked across his face and now steadily crawling up his ears. “I was merely trying to postulate a different interpretation to that moniker.”

“This is Dana, though,” Scilpo pointed out, snorting. “So, yeah, no go. She got pissed and kicked his teeth in. And now they’re calling her the  _killer_ whale, though on the upside, I think she might take a shine to it now. What with the whole killer bit.”

“They’re truly graceful, deadly animals,” Harit insisted, in the tones that preluded a very long, very convoluted lecture on the nature of the animal in turn.

“Whales,” Scilpo asked, “or your not-girlfriend?”

“Shut up!”


	130. year xii | kitty snuggling

* * *

_year xii | kitty snuggling_

* * *

 

“I guess I’ll just die here,” Nyx muttered wryly, and then paused to give Cor a dirty look when all he did was take a picture.

Prompto was slumped on his side, head pillowed in his lap, snoring without a care. And on his back, also snoring without a care, and also slumped on his side, was Mr. Sassypants On Fire. Nyx couldn’t hope to move without waking one or both up.

“He was a very comfortable pillow to the very end,” Cor deadpanned at him, eyebrows arched, “I’ll make sure to mention it in the eulogy.”

“…okay but seriously?” Nyx scowled. “If I die first and you fucker give me a Lucian funeral, I  _will_ come back from the dead and kick your balls in.”

“Which would be a great way to bring you back to life,” Cor pointed out, and sat on the arm rest, eyebrows arched. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I still can’t believe you bought him a cat,” Nyx sighed, running a hand though Prompto’s hair.

“Didn’t,” Cor insisted, and took a sip of his coffee. “Technically, it was just the rescue fee from the shelter.”

“You keep saying that,” Nyx pointed out dryly, “like it’ll somehow make me forget the point I’m trying to make.”

“Animals are good for trauma,” Cor pointed out, “and at least it’s not a dog.” He paused. “He really,  _really_ wanted a dog.”

“I think a dog would have been grounds for divorce, actually,” Nyx snorted dryly.

Cor paused for a moment, considering, and let out a soft breath.

They were okay.

They were  _okay_.

Nyx only ever joked about divorce when they were okay.

And they were.

“And that would be why you get a Lucian funeral,” Cor retorted back, dry and taunting, and couldn’t help but laugh when Nyx pinched his thigh in retaliation.


	131. year xxvi | smol child playing with Best Dog

* * *

_year xxvi | smol child playing with Best Dog_

* * *

 

“…why is your dumb horse dog babysitting my kids?” Aranea asked, one hand pressed to her forehead and the other twitching for a dagger to throw.

In the living room, Prompto’s dog sniffed at the babies, and made low, whiny noises at them.

“He’s not a horse dog,” Prompto retorted, even though he had an entire Instagram account dedicated to it called DumbHorseDogBaby, “and he’s good with kids. Super good. Dogs are like the smartest pets, they know all sorts of things about kids.”

“Just not good enough to change diapers,” Aranea pointed out dryly.

Prompto shrugged.

“…yeah, but that would be a pretty sick trick, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m this close to revoking babysitting privileges,” she snapped, glaring, “give me one good reason not to.”

“Shit, I’ll give you  _two_ ,” Prompto laughed, and dodged when she took a swing at him, either to ruffle his hair or try to poke his eyes out; he didn’t care to find out which one was it. “One, you love me,” he pointed out, grinning, and dodged another swipe, “and two, your other alternative at this point is Luche, and I think he  _will_ legitimately keel over and die.”


	132. year xiii | string lights

* * *

_year xiii | string lights_

* * *

 

“Like this?” Prompto asked, balanced precariously on a stool, holding the string of lights in place.

“Bit higher, please,” Iris said, smiling. “Want the glow, but not the heat!”

“Right,” Prompto nodded, and stretched to fill her requirements. “You must be excited! New room and all!”

“Yes!” Iris grinned wide, gap tooth and all. “It’s so great to be out of the nursery! I’m not a baby anymore.”

“Eh, you tell that to the big guy,” Prompto teased, dropping down from the stool with a grin. “Pretty sure you’re gonna be his baby sister til the day he dies.”

“Well yeah,” Iris replied, eyebrows arched. “But it’s okay, I think. Daddy’s the same too!” She winked at him. “There’s upsides to being the cute one, you know?”

Prompto grinned right back.

“I might have an inkling.”


	133. year xiii | Cor and Nyx doing something they shouldn't

* * *

_year xiii | Cor and Nyx doing something they shouldn't_

* * *

 

“You look a bit flushed,” Regis said, frowning somewhat.

“Yeah,” Cor replied, rubbing a hand on his face and using the other to try and discretely shove Nyx off his person and only succeeded in scrapping himself on his teeth, because Nyx was an asshole and Cor was going to  _kill_  him. “Feels like I’m coming down with a cold or something. Probably just a bit of fever.”

“If you can, you should wrap up for the day and go home, then,” Regis said, nodding in sympathy. “I’m sure the world will survive if you take the afternoon off.”

“Maybe,” Cor muttered, and managed to grab a braid and  _tug_. He folded his arms over the desk, though, expression hopefully not giving anything away. And then he asked, because he was masochistic like that: “How’s Clarus feeling? About Gladio?”

“Bursting with pride, as expected,” Regis sighed, smiling wryly. “The boy’s rather excited that you’ve agreed to look into his training personally. Clarus is like wise… excited if somewhat wary, admittedly.”

“We all know the end result there is the kid hating my guts by the time I’m done with him,” Cor snorted and tried to cover a gasp, because Nyx had decided to bite the inside of his thigh in retaliation for being ignored. “He’ll do his father proud, I’m sure.”

“True enough,” Regis agreed, chuckling, but sobered up quickly. “You do look awful though, do take the day off, please. We can go over the details of Gladio’s training once Clarus is back.”

“Alright,” Cor said, and made to stood up, despite Nyx digging desperate fingers into his thighs.

Regis waved him down.

“Oh, don’t bother with that,” he said, snorting. “Go home, Cor. It’s an order.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Cor muttered demurely, slumping back on his seat. He waited a few seconds after the door closed behind him to look down at Nyx. “I’m going to murder you.”

“A cold,” Nyx retorted, “a  _cold_. You’re so full of shit.”

“It’s like he  _knows_ we’re having sex,” Cor snorted, slumping back against the chair and letting his eyes fall half-mast, when Nyx took the lack of objection for acceptance, and went right back to wrapping his mouth around his cock. “And you-”

Cor’s phone rang, vibrating noisily on the desk. Cor swiped it on speaker because Nyx’s lips were wrapped around the base of his cock and he didn’t trust himself to not drop the phone.

“Yes?” Cor said, in what he hoped sounded even and calm, and not desperately annoyed because he’d been toying the edge for a while now.

“Sorry, I forgot to mention,” Regis said, chipper and calm and very obviously not aware that Cor was harboring profoundly treacherous thoughts at the moment. “Sylvia is looking for you. I don’t know why but she didn’t seem especially happy about it, so if… something comes up and you need to catch up with Clarus in Lestallum, I understand.”

“I see,” Cor replied, fingers digging into the armrests of his chair, because Nyx was swallowing, and that was just unfair. “Thank you.”

“Oh, and,” Regis said, just as Nyx pulled back with a distressingly loud, wet noise, tongue curled tauntingly on the underside of his cockhead, “have you seen Nyx today?”


	134. year xv | Cor and Nyx lose their shit laughing about something

* * *

_year xv | Cor and Nyx lose their shit laughing about something_

* * *

 

“That’s a dragon,” Nyx said, staring down at the large monstrosity roaming the large open space below them.

“Yeah,” Cor replied, one eyebrow arched.

“There’s a dragon in the sewers beneath the city,” Nyx insisted, “a… poop dragon, if you will.”

“Please never say that again,” Cor snorted, shaking his head.

“I’m knee-deep in shit, two miles beneath the ground because there’s a fucking dragon nesting in the sewers, Cor,” Nyx deadpanned, giving him a dirty look. “I’m gonna kill it, so I get to call it whatever the fuck I want.”

“Well, you were bitching that red giants just weren’t cutting it anymore,” Cor retorted, “I figured you could use the change of pace.”

“ _Knee-deep in shit_ , you fucker,” Nyx snapped, and then threw a kukri, aimed at the dragon’s face. “Fuck.”

It was a pretty nice battle, admittedly. Something of a challenge, for once. The floor was slippery with the knee-deep sludge neither wanted to think too hard about, and the beast was fast and agile. It also breathed fire, it turned out. Cor had failed to mention that.

“Oh shit,” he said, staring blankly at the fireball the size of a bus aimed at him.

Then Nyx slammed into him, and warped him out of the line of fire. The problem was that the knee-deep sludge they were trying not to acknowledge was mostly shit… was also fucking flammable.

“Now that’s a fucking shitstorm,” Cor deadpanned wryly, as they realized they were on a timer to kill the fucking thing, while everything was burning.

“Shut up!” Nyx spluttered, warping through the flames to try and score a good hit against the sturdy scale armor. “It’s not funny!”

“We’re fighting a dragon made of shit, fire and hate,” Cor snorted, and barely avoided getting stepped on by said beast, “and we might actually die here. I think that’s hilarious.”

“Oh god, the headlines,” Nyx choked on a laugh as he finally managed to land on the dragon’s head, and tried his best to stab its eyes out. “I might let myself die just for the headlines.”

“Counterargument,” Cor offered, as he rolled under one of the dragon’s paws, twisted, turned and unleashed a cut that sent the beast roaring and falling into the ground with a loud, disgusting splash. “If we live, we get to write the report for this.”

“Sold,” Nyx laughed and cast a wide-spread blizzard spell to try and counter the quickly spreading inferno that seemed about to kill them both.

"There was shit, and now it’s dead,” Cor recited, eyebrows arched, watching the spell waver somewhat against the fire, resulting in an explosion of not-quite-as-hideously-gross-water rather than the explosion of frost it was meant to be. “The end.”

“We’re two miles underground,” Nyx insisted, “covered in shit, frozen or burnt in places, and we just murdered a poop dragon. You can do so much better than that.”

They spent the long walk back to the surface swapping terrible, soul-destroying shit puns and trying to compose the worst thing they could imagine, to hand in as a report for their misadventure. They were not expecting to find Clarus waiting for them, next to a contrite looking Monica and an equally flustered Dustin.

“Holy shit,” Clarus blurted out, when he saw them, or he smelled them, it was hard to tell.

Cor and Nyx lost it entirely.


	135. year xvi | Prompto and/or Aranea sneaking out and getting caught someplace they should not be

* * *

_year xvi | Prompto and/or Aranea sneaking out and getting caught someplace they should not be_

* * *

 

“…I’m officially too old for this,” Cor muttered a little mournfully, chin resting comfortably atop Nyx’s head.

Nyx snorted.

“Did you spontaneously grow an actual taste in music?” He asked, more than a little spitefully.

“No,” Cor snorted, shaking his head, “but our kids just walked through the front door.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Nyx groaned, eyes sliding close as he leaned back against Cor more purposefully.

“Maybe later,” Cor promised tauntingly, and nudged him off his lap. “Are you in the mood for yelling or should I just do crushing disappointment?”

“Disappointment to get them into the car,” Nyx said, standing up with a sigh, and then offering Cor a hand to pull him up and close to him, “then I can yell at them and they might actually hear me in the first place.”

“Point,” Cor conceded with a slight shake of his head, and then motioned for Nyx to lead the charge to intercept two very familiar figures trying to make their way to the bar.

…the look on Prompto’s face was frankly magical.


	136. year xx | visiting Galahd... sort of

* * *

_year xx | visiting Galahd... sort of_

* * *

 

“With Titan dealt with,” Ignis explains, as he passes along bowls of soup, “we’ve reached the end of the list as far as Astrals with known locations.”

“That’s not strictly true,” Luna points out, frowning. “Shiva’s corpse is a very large landmark to miss in the Empire, and everyone knows Ramuh dwells in Galahd.”

“Except there’s a giant army of daemons all over the Empire,” Noct muses, wincing. “Plus, if Shiva has a corpse that means she’s dead. Can gods even die?”

“Ravatogh is famously the site of Ifrit’s grave,” Gladio says, shrugging, “so yeah, apparently.”

“Galahd isn’t exactly a promising lead either,” Ravus murmurs sullenly, “the words world’s deadliest deathtrap have been used to describe it lately, and it doesn’t refer to its climate, though I expect it remains as hideous as ever.”

Prompto snorts, it’s loud and irreverent and makes Ignis and Gladio and Noct and Luna brace, because he’s been in a mood, for a while now, and Ravus has not made it better either.

“Galahd’s not a place, not really,” he says, eyebrows arched, “plus, if you want to make a covenant with the Old Man, all you really need to do is yell at him about it.”

Noct squints at him a little.

“You remember people  _died_ in the last Walk, right?”

Prompto shrugs eloquently.

“It’s a Walk, so… yeah.”


	137. year -xiii | Cor, Weskham, licking the spoon

* * *

_year -xiii | Cor, Weskham, licking the spoon_

* * *

 

“You know,” Weskham tells him, busy beating a bowl of egg whites that rises as if by magic under the whisk, “you still haven’t told me when’s your birthday.”

Cor gives him a look that’s three parts disbelief and one solid part suspicious squinting. He adds a good dose of glaring, when all Weskham does is laugh at his efforts.

“Honestly, would it be so bad?” He asks, eyebrows arched as he pours a different mixture into the eggs, folding it gently so the eggs won’t deflate, and it’s still magic, in Cor’s humble opinion, only less flashy and infinitely more useful than all of Regis’ ridiculous tricks. “To eat some cake and take the day off?”

It sounds lovely, really, which is why Cor knows he shouldn’t trust it.

“I don’t remember,” he tells him, with the same bored inflection he’s mastered to keep people from guessing his lies. “So it doesn’t matter.”

Weskham frowns. Cor’s used to that, people frowning at him and being disappointed or angry or disbelieving. To be honest, so long as it’s not his King who gives him that look… then it’s fine. It’s fine.

“Well, that just won’t do,” Weskham says, putting down the whisk and slowly pouring the mixture into a pan. “I guess we’ll just have to celebrate your birthday along each one of ours,” he adds, and smirks when Cor splutters, “just in case.”

“Might be old enough to be taken seriously by the time we reach Altissia,” Cor mutters sullenly, eyes half-lidded and sharp.

Weskham does that thing of his, when he’s annoyed but not angry, like when Regis pickpockets his lighter right when he’s about to smoke, lips thinned out in a smile that’s closer to a grimace than anything else. Then the moment is gone, and he pushes the bowl and the whisk in Cor’s general direction, before he turns to put the pan in the oven and pulls out a sizable chunk of meat for seasoning. Cor resists temptation to grab the offering, even if he saw Weskham add the fancy, powdery sugar to it.

“Oh, stop pretending that’s not why you’re here for, you insufferable brat,” he says after a moment, but it’s soft and teasing, and it feels like Regis stealing his hat because he’s bored or Clarus sneaking marbles into his pockets because he figured out he’s collecting them.

Cor hums in the back of his throat, suitably reluctant for another thirty seconds, and then reaches out to grab the bowl and lick the white mixture straight off the whisk’s wires.

“If it were your birthday,” Weskham tells him after a moment, sprinkling salt across the carved meat, “it’d be chocolate instead.”

It’s still four full months before Cor gives up the secret, and by then his birthday has come and gone. Weskham bakes him a cake, nonetheless. Cor licks the whisk of that one, too.


	138. year xvii | ‘can we keep it?’-regarding something dangerous/deadly that Prom managed to somehow befriend?

* * *

_year xvii | ‘can we keep it?’-regarding something dangerous/deadly that Prom managed to somehow befriend?_

* * *

 

“Uh,” Prompto begins, wincing, “it wasn’t on purpose.”

Nyx has his head in his hands. Cor is giving him a blank stare, like he can’t decide to be impressed or annoyed, and so he’s withholding judgment for the moment.

Aranea is laughing so hard she can’t breathe.

At Prompto’s side, the large, fluffy chick puffs up its red feathers and reaches out to peck at his hair almost affectionately.

“There was a Sahagin trying to eat it and I might have shot before thinking and then it just…” Prompto shrugged a little helplessly. “So yeah. That happened.” He winced. “I didn’t mean to adopt a chickatrice.”

“That’s not a chickatrice,” Cor deadpans, right as heavy, powerful footsteps echo behind the curtain of greenery on the far side of the haven.

“Oh, well,” Prompto hisses, staring at the massive kingatrice that made its way into the clearing, followed by two royalisks and three other equally bright, equally fluffy chicks. “Fuck me.”

“Nobody breathe,” Nyx says calmly, gently, and they all stay right where they are, as the chick next to Prompto chirps questioningly at its parents, before hopping over to their side without a care in the world.

The kingatrice rubs its beak around the chick, as if checking for injuries, and even Aranea is sitting quiet on the floor, breath held as they wait for its verdict. She’s lived in Meldacio long enough to know there are some beasts in the Vesperpool you just flat out don’t fuck with, unless you absolutely have to.

“Can I cry?” Prompto asks plaintively, as the massive fowl seems pleased to find its offspring unharmed, and leaves with its flock without paying them any heed. “I might need to cry now.”

“Because you didn’t get to keep it?” Nyx asks wryly, reaching a hand to mess up Prompto’s artfully styled hair with a good ruffle.

“That too,” Prompto mutters, and then gives up pretenses and hugs his dad, because  _holy shit_ , they didn’t actually die.


	139. year ix | Tredd Furia is not as oblivious as one might think

* * *

_year ix | Tredd Furia is not as oblivious as one might think_

* * *

 

Tredd’s always looked at things on the bright side. Squinting at it maybe, but still, bright side. Like the fact he’s an orphan nobody crawled from the sewers to serve the King. The bright side being no one depends on him. He hasn’t got any mouths to feed, any backs to clothe, anyone else’s bills to pay. He pays his due to the fund, because the fund fed him those couple years before he enlisted and started earning on his own, but he’s by far the only Captain who doesn’t have to pay for anyone except himself, the only Captain who lives in the barracks.

The barracks are cheap and come with food and services, and rank means he gets his own room.

Tredd lies in bed most evenings, beer waiting in the tiny cooler by the bed, game controller in his hand, and spends the hours before falling asleep playing games and refusing to feel childish about it. Just because everyone around him is having kids and figuring out relationships and talking about buying houses and apartments… it doesn’t mean he has to. He’s fine the way he is, living in the now.

He invites Luche to his room, sometimes. Nothing gay about it, except the way Luche snarls whenever he jokes about it, because Luche… Luche’s a friend, when he’s not being a bitch, and Tredd likes the fucker enough to share his beer and sit with him, shoulder to shoulder, on the edge of his bed, and play games that he knows will make Luche ragequit twenty minutes in.

And it’s not gay, really, it ain’t, not even when Luche stares at him sometimes, like he’s trying to puzzle together how to say something stupid, ‘cause Tredd ain’t gay, and Luche ain’t gay, either, the ballsy fucker who’s sleeping with the Commander’s daughter. Tredd reckons he’s got brass balls the size of grapefruit, to pull that off.

But still.

Sometimes, Luche’s eyes linger. Sometimes, he punches his shoulder not quite as hard. And Tredd wonders, sometimes, if his best friend wants to fuck him, wants to be fucked by him, and whether he’d be game to try it, but he always breaks the tension before it can really build up, with a joke or an insult, and Luche’s face flushes bright scarlet, red like Tredd’s hair.

He’s always jerked off to blondes, anyway. Nothing weird about pointing that out, now. Nothing weird about mourning the fact Luche’s flat as a board, dick right between his legs, because… because shower thoughts are stupid and maybe a little gay, but everyone’s a little gay taking showers in the barracks anyway.

It’s fine.

He’s fine.


	140. year xviii | Gladio, Cor, breakups

* * *

_year xviii | Gladio, Cor, breakups_

* * *

 

“…I fucked up,” Gladio said, wincing as he went through the slow, tedious motions to oil his sword, sitting on the couch of Cor’s office with the monstrous blade resting on his knees.

“I mean, probably,” Cor replied, not particularly upset about it. “Is he mad at you?”

“…that’s how I know I fucked up,” Gladio laughed, and he sounded a bit small and not quite as sure of himself as usual, “he’s not.”

Cor hummed in the back of his throat, and let the silence settle in for a moment.

“Sometimes shit happens,” he said at long last, once he’d collected his thoughts and figured out a way out of the labyrinth of loyalties and boundaries he was stuck in, and trying not to upset. “Sometimes timing’s wrong, or priorities misalign, or you’re straight up just not as good for each other as you’d hope to be.”

“I really did think it was going to work,” Gladio said, in the quiet tones of one confessing something he wasn’t sure wasn’t going to be used against him, one day.

“Yeah,” Cor sighed, “we always do.”


	141. year xiv. Sassypants continues to be the best cat

* * *

_year xiv. Sassypants continues to be the best cat_

* * *

“No,” Nyx said, looking down his nose at the damn cat yowling at his feet, with the kind of scorn and disdain he usually reserved for rookies that got dragged into actual scuffles with Cor’s goons.

The cat meowed at him, a pitiful, painful sound, like someone had stabbed him with a knife.

“No!” Nyx snarled, holding the bag of ham closer to him, as if expecting the damn thing to lunge at him for it.

To be fair, the cat didn’t move. Period. It laid on strategically chosen places around the house, usually the ones that got the most sunlight, and could be generally trusted to not give a shit. About anything. Despite his misgivings, Nyx liked the cat, just for that. Because it gave no fucks. Ever.

And then you went to the kitchen and made yourself a sandwich and the moment the rustle of plastic bags echoed, the soft scent of highly processed meat from dubious precedence turned into ham echoed in the room… the cat went ballistic.

Fucking ballistic.

Meowing and yowling and sounding like someone was making very concerned efforts to murder the shit out of it.

“Fuck off,” Nyx snarled down, when the cat reached out and sank its claws into his leg, clinging like a desperate thing. “You have your own damn food!”

He could hear Cor, indolent deadpan in the back of his head questioning if picking a fight with a goddamn cat was really worth not giving it half a slice of ham. But it was the principle of the whole thing! Nyx looked around furtively.

“One,” he hissed, stepping back and watching dispassionately as the cat whined and clung onto his leg, like some kind of not-liquid, not-solid state of matter that defied the laws of physics. “Just one, you hear?”

He twitched and threw the ham at the floor and watched with a forlorn sigh as all racket ceased at once, and the damn thing started eating almost daintily. Daintily. The fucking cat.

“I hate you,” Nyx told it, before taking a bite of his sandwich, when the stupid bastard went and rubbed itself all over his ankles, purring in content. “Fuck.”


	142. year ix. amira taking care of prompto when his parents aren't there

* * *

_year ix. amira taking care of prompto when his parents aren't there_

* * *

 

“I wish someone in our house knew how to cook,” Prompto muttered a little wistfully, when Amira placed a bowl in front of him and the smell hit him hard and fast, pungent and lovely.

“I thought the Marshal cooked,” Amira pointed out, eyebrows arched as she watched Prompto smile contently at his food.

He woke up at six, sharp, even on weekends, which was a bit of a novelty around here. Amira didn’t mind the company in the mornings, waiting for her own children to crawl out of bed, hopefully some time before noon. Prompto liked to chat and he was a nice kid.

“Cor doesn’t cook stuff like this,” Prompto sighed, taking a spoonful of the thick soup, heavy and spicy, meant to sit warm and heavy in your gut and help you get through the morning chill. “Too spicy for him.”

Insomnia didn’t have the kind of weather that required this kind of food to function, but it was a nice way to remember home, in Amira’s experience, and no one had complained so far.

“Maybe  _you_ could learn,” Amira suggested, amused by the wide-eyed look she got for her trouble. “Well,  _someone_ has to, might as well be you.” There was a pause. “I’ve heard stories about your dad, Prompto. Your dad should never be allowed near an open fire, unless he’s literally holding it in his hand, because it’s magic.”

Prompto nodded sagely.

“We  _know_ ,” he said, in the grave tones of a survivor.

Amira laughed and reached a hand to ruffle his hair.

“Well, you were going to spend your morning with me anyway.”


	143. year xix. prompto, cor, favors and work

* * *

_year xix. prompto, cor, favors and work_

* * *

 

Cor closed his eyes and sighed very loudly when Prompto’s phone rang and it echoed a very specific tune - in chiptune, because Prompto absolutely had to find a way to make the already obnoxious song even worse - that was by now hotwired to make him twitchy.

“I wish you’d change your ringtone for her,” he said, sprawled on the couch and watching Prompto frantically try to find a place to stop safely because apparently the new rage in all videogames was not even having the decency to pause when necessary.

“I mean, I could,” Prompto snorted, fumbling with a controller in one hand and a cellphone on the other, “but I need something that packs due warning - hi, Ma’am, what’s on fire? Preemptively, I didn’t start it.” Cor couldn’t hear what Monica said. He was glad for it. Prompto sighed. It was a very Nyx kind of sigh, like he was deeply disappointed with the state of the world and the fact he was expected to fix it. “Alright, alright. I’ll look into it. But I want it on record that I really didn’t start this fire! I’m very proud of my fires, Ma’am, I don’t have a problem owning up to them.” There was a lengthy pause. “…Okay.” He hung up and tilted his head back into the couch, staring at Cor. “I need a favor.”

“The please drive me somewhere because I’m nineteen years old and still don’t have a license kind of favor?” Cor asked, with something almost like hope.

Prompto wrinkled his nose.

“I have license, I just don’t drive. Because I hate crashing and cars and traffic in this city is a sin against the gods. Also no,” he smirked. It was his work smirk. Cor sighed again. “It’s the I need a video file to go viral and crash a few servers while I dig out dirt for my boss kind of favor. You know, basic stuff.”

“Are you going to have me reading pornography out loud again?” Cor asked, bracing himself for the worst.

Prompto snorted.

“Ew, no, never again,” he laughed, “how good are you at dancing, dad?”


	144. year iv. prompto's medical examinations

* * *

_year iv. prompto's medical examinations_

* * *

 

It was, of course, necessary. He knew that. Nyx knew that. It was no small thing, what Lyra had discovered and that they had, inadvertently, brought back. It was necessary. Prompto looked and acted like a very normal, healthy young boy, and for the most part, they were firmly convinced he was.

The trouble now was to convince the head of the research team that had been created to handle the aftermath of Lyra’s intel leak. Most of them were her people, the last few stragglers that remained and which Cor had honestly no idea how to deal with considering he’d always let Lyra do whatever she wanted - she would have, anyway, giving her permission just made it more efficient all around - and kept his nose out of her business unless she explicitly made it his.

The worst part, Cor knew, was that they liked the boy. He knew because he liked him too, fussy, bratty little thing he was, and the thought that he’d turn out to be something else, something that’d need to be… put down, it was not a comforting thought. Still, at least that made them thorough but not cruel. Cor took the boy for his testing, every four months, and stayed around the lab, lurking in the background while they poked and prodded at the surprisingly docile boy. Nyx had tried, once, and his stomach had turned and he’d had to walk out of the room, so Cor took over this one thing that Nyx couldn’t do for his son, with a grim sort of determination that made Monica smile, more often than not.

“All good?” He asked, approaching the boy sitting on the cold, examination table, watching him rub his eyes with his hands.

Prompto stared at him with half-lidded eyes and offered a sleepy smile, arms stretching up to be carried. He made a tiny, pleased sound when Cor gathered him in his arms.

“I was good,” the boy muttered sleepily into his shoulder.

Cor ran a hand over his back, back and forth, aiming for soothing but never quite sure he hit the right mark. He blinked when he realized that Diana, the main examiner who’d looked at Prompto that day, drawing blood and plugging sensors all over the boy, had a box of candy the size of her head in her hands. She gave Cor a thumbs up when she realized he was staring.

“Yes,” Cor snorted, shifting to hold Prompto in one arm, curled up against his chest and his face tucked into his neck, “yes, you were. You are.”

“See you next time, Sunshine,” Diana said, shoving her offerings into Cor’s free hand and squeezing one of Prompto’s hands reassuringly. “Keep being good for the Marshal, okay?”

“‘kay,” Prompto agreed easily, and then started snoring.


	145. year v. why does cor wear three shirts anyway?

* * *

_year v. why does cor wear three shirts anyway?_

* * *

 

Cor stared at him.

“Because,” he began, awkward and annoyed, not quite stuttering but almost close to it, “uh. It’s the law.”

Nyx stared back at him.

“It’s the law,” he repeated, squinting, “that you wear three perfectly serviceable t-shirts.”

Cor sighed. It was a very loud, very tired sigh.

“So the Crownsguard has uniforms and fatigues,” he began, in his best didactic tone, which made Nyx sit back to properly take in the story, because there was definitely a story there, and it was the funny kind, he was almost sure, because Cor was actually up for sharing it. “Fatigues are mostly for undercover agents that benefit more for being able to blend in, than being instantly recognized as part of the Crownsguard. I have fatigues.” There was a pause. “I mean, I have a uniform too, but I just. Don’t wear it pretty much ever. Anyway, fatigues are made by taking a few sets of comfortable clothes over to the uniform division, and letting them cook up a copy of them made from actual reinforced materials that are then empowered by the King’s magic, same as uniforms usually are.”

When Cor stopped there, seemingly caught up in his own thoughts, Nyx waited a moment before nodding.

“Still doesn’t explain why you need three shirts or why that’d be  _law_.”

Cor snorted.

“Right. So. Me. Fifteen. Regis’ stupid, stupid roadtrip.” He paused a moment, glaring when Nyx snickered. “I kept losing track of which were fatigues and which were just shirts. In my defense, I’d never really worn any kind of… armor before. I was used to going without. You know, it’s how you learn. You get stabbed once, you learn not to get stabbed again. Regis wasn’t exactly happy about it, mostly because the whole point of fatigues is that they make getting stabbed actually pretty hard. But I was fifteen, epitome of maturity as you can imagine, so I started wearing multiple shirts, and told Regis it was because at least that way maybe one or two of them were actual armor.”

Nyx grinned.

“You were fifteen, you also thought it looked cool.”

There was a pause.

“…I mean yes. But as I’m sure you know, once you stop being fifteen, a lot of those cool things cease being cool and start being cumbersome.” Cor sighed. It was a very loud sigh. “Anyway, I grew out of it. Mostly. But then Regis made me Marshal and then he wrote a fucking stupid rule into the dress-codes for the Crownsguard which basically means that all fatigues need at least four layers, only in a lot more words and about fourteen separate sections.” There was a pause. “I mean, I could do what the saboteurs do, which is to commission underwear to knock off those layers, but frankly, I know why he did it and I’m not about to budge.”

“So you’ve been holding onto this grudge for fifteen years instead.”

“You have a standing grudge with Libertus about your bar tab, I have my stupid dress-code spat with Regis,” Cor said somewhat pragmatically. And then added, in a quieter voice, “it’s what brothers do, hold on grudges and have spats.”

Nyx smiled and reached a foot to nudge Cor’s leg.

“Is that why you haven’t done the sensible thing and changed that dress-code?” He asked, and then laughed when Cor snarled.

“No,” he replied, eyebrows twitchy with annoyance, “it’s why Regis I’m-a-shithead Lucis Caelum keeps  _blocking_ every attempt I make.”

“For fifteen years,” Nyx deadpanned a little pointedly.

“Going on twenty, really.”

“Yeah,” Nyx laughed, and reached out to sprawl on Cor’s back, not quite a hug so much as just… touch. “That’s what brothers do.”


	146. year xiv. anemone has a beer too many

* * *

_year xiv. anemone has a beer too many_

* * *

 

“Why do you always get into these messes?” Anemone sighed, staring down at her glass with profoundly annoyed frown. “I wish you’d seduce my husband again,  _that_ would be easy to clean up.”

Cor snorted, elbow on the desk, chin on his hand and expression borderline bored.

“Murder is such a tidy solution, isn’t it?”

Nyx chose that moment to stop choking on his tongue.

“Nope, sorry, backtrack, what do you mean  _again_?”

There was a long, awkward pause.

“Oh dear,” Anemone said, “look at the time,” and then promptly ran for the door as fast as her drunken legs could take her, while at the same time not breaking into an actual run.


	147. year x. iris and cor bonding

* * *

_year x. iris and cor bonding_

* * *

 

“And then he got  _mad_ at me,” Iris lamented, with far too much disdain for a child her age, tiny feet swinging as she perched atop the base of a statue Cor was leaning against, and which coincidentally Cor had sat her on, when she’d complained about not having the best view of the whole affair. “It was rude.”

“The horror,” Cor deadpanned, calmly and slowly working his way through his fourth glass of wine, eyes roaming the crowd and keeping a tight lock-on on his scattered charges:

Nyx was hiding behind the Oracle, as per usual.

Prompto was hiding behind Gladio, also as per usual.

It was Aranea all too happily trailing after Clarus that had Cor slightly concerned.

There was a merit in watching Clarus’ brain shortsheet itself whenever Aranea was involved, but Cor didn’t actually want the neurotic asshole to get hurt or anything. He was his friend, and he didn’t have many of those left, these days.

“Cor,” Iris asked, shifting to sit at the very edge of the marble structure, looking down at him with bright, warm eyes, “when do I get to dance?”

Cor stared up at her, trying to predict which side she was going to fall and how fast he needed to move to catch her, and blinked.

“What do you mean?”

Iris sighed her mother’s sigh, which made Cor’s lips twitch and fear for his children’s generation, though he supposed all generations needed an Anemone Amicitia making sure things actually worked with some semblance of functionality.

“Mum says the whole point of a ball is dancing,” Iris intoned in the put upon tones of a very patient five year old, “when do I get to dance?”

Cor reached out to gather her up in his arms, and sat her in the crook of his elbow.

“Right now, if you want,” he said, still indolent and deadpan, and watched with mild amusement as her face flushed.

“You can’t dance if your feet aren’t on the ground,” Iris said, like this was some great truth Cor should know better.

“Be taller then,” he said, and chuckled low in his throat when she glared mightily at him.

“I’m gonna be the tallerest,” she informed him, full of conviction, “and then you’ll be  _sorry_.”

Cor supposed it was mean of him, to pick on her, even though she moved quickly from being annoyed to critiquing his technique and demanding he moved further into the ballroom proper.

But then, Clarus kept having children and then he kept asking Cor to look after them, he supposed he was entitled to pick on them a little.


	148. year viii. cor and gralea

* * *

_year viii. cor and gralea_

* * *

 

It’s a cold, miserable morning, stalking the grey streets of Gralea for a glimpse of that elusive new Chancellor that even the best in the Crownsguard employ have not been able to provide concrete proof that he actually exists. Cor takes a moment, as he passes along the cold, square coins to pay for the small plastic cup of black sludge pretending to be coffee, to allow himself weakness and admit he misses Lyra Argentum something fierce. Then the moment passes, he grunts in acknowledgement to the sunken eyed vendor and starts walking back towards the small, rundown hostal he’s staying at.

Gralea has changed, in the wake of the Glacian’s rage against Nilfheim. Cor remembers what it was like, years ago, bursting with people that scuttled about like ants, hurried along by the impressively bombastic propaganda demanding a unified front to face the Lucian menace and to support the feverish efforts to liberate the world from their tyranny. Cor is no stranger to propaganda. He is, after all, close friends to Anemone Amicitia, who oversees the largest, most complex propaganda engine in the world and keeps Insomnia and its nearly twenty million populace stubbornly refusing to accept the fact they live in a city under siege. Cor doesn’t begrudge the Empire’s capital its lies, he almost finds it… comforting, a very much needed reminder that behind the endless lines of MT soldiers, there’s still people, about as innocent as the ones living carefully crafted lies in Insomnia, who are little more than collateral damage waiting to happen.

He’s not surprised to find no mention of the ceasefire anywhere, but then this Gralea is greyer, thinner than he remembers. People’s faces are gaunt and tired and cold, always cold. It’s almost always snowing, in Gralea. And when it’s not, it rains. It’s not the kind of weather that invites people to feel… chipper about their lot in life, about a war their Emperor demands they keep fighting.

Cor sits on the windowsill of the small, dilapidated room he’s renting for the duration of his stay, cup of boiling hot coffee - bitter, thick, rebrewed coffee, no sugar because it’s rationed since last month he’s been told - in his hand, and a strange, nagging unease crawling under his skin. Gralea looks like it  and not Insomnia is the true city under siege, yet despite shortages and demands and thinning population, the Empire remains steadfast in its war against Lucis. The ceasefire offer received no answer, no counterattack. The situation is clearly untenable, and far worse than what Cor had expected to find here, but it rubs him wrong, that the Emperor seems determined to drive his people to the ground if necessary, to continue with his war.

Cor remembers being young and standing guard behind Regis’ father’s chair in a tent somewhere in Cleigne, listening to the King argue strategies with his advisers more for the sake of fighting boredom, and that someone said something rude and… cruel, about the Emperor, still a much cleaner version of what Cor had heard among the soldiers out in the field, and yet the King had struck the man who spoke so callously without mercy. The Emperor, the King reminded them all, was many things, an enemy chief among them, but he was a good ruler, and, in the King’s humble opinion, a good man. Cor wonders how is it that the King could be so wrong, back then, but then Mors was wrong about a great many deal of things, in the end, so perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him.

He watches the people in the street below, as the clouds part and release a pelting rain that muddles the roads and forces men and women to scurry about like rats. It’s a miserable, cold morning and yet… Cor can’t help but find comfort in the rain, these days. Even the dreariest storm seems almost pleasant, now. He knows why, of course, and he tries not to think about it, not here, in the heart of enemy territory, where he’s at great risk of never finding the right way home. The people below, they do not find comfort in the rain. They do not think lightning is warm and beautiful and a promise of rebirth with each death it claims. They don’t know to give up fear for the sake of a promise that might never be fulfilled.

Cor sits there, warming his hands with the coffee he won’t drink, that he bought purely for the sake of having something warm to hold between his hands, and thinks of rain and the bead woven into the handle of his sword, lost in that pocket of void carved by Regis and given to him to use best he can. He thinks of rain and names that come to his lips, stubborn and relentless even if he tries to ignore them, if he tries to move on to the grim reality of the job he’s meant to be doing.

Cor sits there, and wonders if across the world, there’s rain there for Nyx to bask in.


	149. year xviii. sonitus tries to raise funds by selling a pinup calendar; nyx is less than thrilled

* * *

_year xviii. sonitus tries to raise funds by selling a pinup calendar; nyx is less than thrilled_

* * *

 

“You want me to  _what_.”

It wasn’t even a question. Sonitus was mildly offended by that, because that was a tone the Commander usually reserved for Tredd himself, or for people telling him what Tredd had done. Which was bullshit, because Sonitus was solidly not as stupid as Tredd and the Commander absolutely did not have a special fund just to bail the motherfucker out of jail every single time he did something stupid and got jumped by every single fucking Crownsguard goon in the vicinity.

“Look, Boss, it’s pure math,” Sonitus explained, after the prerequisite death glare because he’d gotten fucking Tredd’d and wasn’t that the most offensive thing that had happened to him this month? “Your exhibitionist foreplay just isn’t rolling in the dough as it used to.”

“Please never call them that again,” the Commander replied, staring blankly at him, before he shuddered. “What does that even  _mean_?”

“Look, watching you get kicked around by the Immortal turned in a pretty penny when everyone thought he was really going to kill you. Knowing he’s sweet on your ass made a tidy profit for curiosity’s sake the first few bouts, but now? Honestly, it’s just boring, Boss.” When the Commander merely stared at him blankly, Sonitus rolled his eyes with a flourish. “You’re gonna call him a bitch, he’s going to kick your ass, gross property damage happens that he’s gonna pay for. Rinse, repeat. No one’s making any bets anymore, not the serious dough rolling that we used to.”

“…fair enough,” the Commander replied dubiously, “but how did you get from that to…”

“Pinups? Pft, oldest fundraising trick in the book, Boss,” Sonitus pointed out, snorting. “People pay good money for a good fight, and a good fuck. Or at least a good fantasy of one.”

“Sonitus,” the Commander says, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, “I like you.”

“Not gay, Boss,” Sonitus interjected, smirking when the Commander’s expression grew even pinchier. “Flattered, though.”

“The fact I like you is the only reason I haven’t stabbed you in the face,” he went on, shaking his head. “It’s not going to happen.”

Sonitus bared his teeth into a grin. It was a terrible grin, and not just because Sonitus had terribly crooked teeth.

“Not even if I told you I already convinced the Crownsguard to chip in?”

The look on the Commander’s face was worth the fact Sonitus just got Tredd’d again.

“You  _what_.”


	150. year iv. cor has fangirl, nyx laughs approximately forever

* * *

year iv. cor has fangirl, nyx laughs approximately forever

* * *

 

“You get fanmail,” Nyx said, in the tones of someone discovering the perfectly preserved ruins of an ancient civilization: pure, mystified awe. “You get  _fanmail_.”

Cor sighed, slowly, in stages.

“Yes, I do.”

Nyx blinked, when Cor didn’t continue.

“Well, go on, don’t leave me in suspense,” he said, “what’s it like?”

“Think about my public image,” Cor said, carefully emotionless, “now think about the kind of people who want to fuck that.”

Nyx laughed and went to sit on Cor’s lap - though spilled like a vaguely solid fluid of dubious viscosity was a good descriptor too.

“Hey now, I’m fucking that,” he said, pressing a taunting kiss against the edge of Cor’s jaw.

Cor  stared at the distance with the soulless look of a Man Who Has Seen Too Much.

“Exactly.”


	151. year iv. tredd furia comes to some distressing realizations about his commanding officer

* * *

year iv. tredd furia comes to some distressing realizations about his commanding officer

* * *

 

Tredd is close enough to hear them laugh.

Laugh.

 _Them_.

Because of course the Immortal laughs, coming face to face with the daemon with a sword proportionately as long as his own, some kind of freakish pink Ronin that lunges at him while ignoring everyone else. But there’s the Naga-like monstrosity - Nagas are neither that big nor that loud, not that Tredd remembers  - that pops out of the ground, and he hears the Commander laugh.

The Commander never laughs, during ops.

Oh, sure, he cracks jokes and tries to lighten up things when they go to shit. But he never  _laughs_.

They’re having fun, he realizes, incredulous stare all over his face, because that’s… shit.

Shit.

Tredd is reckless and a bit not the best guy to entrust with thinking ahead before he acts and maybe that’s a problem sometimes, and he’s sometimes working on it, and all but.

But.

Shit.

“Where are you?” Luche growls at him through the comm, sounding out of breath, “do you need backup?”

Tredd watches the Immortal sparring with their primary mark and the Commander playing tag with the backup target.

“Nah,” Tredd replies, letting himself fall on his ass because his input is clearly not required in this fight, “we’re good.”

 _Shit_.


	152. year - xiii. regis is a crybaby but wes loves him anyway

* * *

_year - xiii. regis is a crybaby but wes loves him anyway_

* * *

 

“You can cry about it, you big baby,” Weskham muses, sitting on the ground, legs folded with Regis’ ankles in his lap.

His very bruised ankles, at that.

“He’s  _fifteen_ , Wes,” Regis hisses, fingers digging into the bedding and the floor of the tent, as if trying to reach into the ground itself, and his eyes well up with tears he won’t shed as Weskham slowly but surely rubs salve on the angry bruises where Cor chose to kick their Prince and express his displeasure. “Fifteen, Astrals.”

“Doesn’t matter, Reg,” Weskham replies, even though it kinda does, it’s the whole crux of the thing, because the King saddled them with a fifteen year old weapon of mass destruction and failed to provide them with anything resembling a user’s manual. “He hits like a truck and we all know it. It’s okay to cry if it hurts.”

Frankly, Weskham is mostly just glad he hasn’t found broken bone under his hands. Cor is a stubborn, feral little shit, but Weskham is reasonably sure he’d be mortified if he’d accidentally broken the Prince’s leg over teasing gone wrong.

“It’s not that bad,” Regis insists, because he’s a stubborn, ridiculous brat, Weskham knows, and then hisses loudly and viciously when provoked - which is, all the time, because he’s twenty going on fifteen, so everything is provoking him all the time. “Really, it’s okay.”

“Mhm,” Weskham hums, and then arches both eyebrows at him, “so that means I can have my hand back?”

The hand Regis has been holding onto and which is likely to get as bruised as his ankles, by the end of it.

Regis turns the color of a lovely ripe tomato.

“Of course,” he says, letting go of Weskham’s hand as if scalded. “Right. Sorry.”

Weskham smiles. It’s a smile that lets Regis know he’s going to spend the night gossiping with Clarus, under the pretense of standing guard.

Regis is an absolute idiot, of course, because he still wants to kiss it. And him. Possibly forever.

Dammit.


	153. year xx. in which Cor has spent six years trying to find a gift for Nyx, Prompto helps

* * *

_year xx. in which Cor has spent six years trying to find a gift for Nyx, Prompto helps_

* * *

 

“…holy  _shit_ , these are bad,” Prompto mused, squinting at his phone. “Don’t you have like… higher definition copies of these?”

“Not really,” Cor replied, shrugging, “they got scanned and added to a casefile, but it was pretty much a rush job.”

Prompto swiped to the next picture, grimacing at the blurry, awkward shadows all over it.

“You know, we have regulations for this,” Prompto grumped, frow burrowed into a displeased expression. “Catch me dead submitting something this shitty to a dossier.”

“Yes, well, Monica  _would_ kill you,” Cor replied, lips twitching slightly. “So there’s that.”

“Except you wouldn’t let her, obviously, because you love me,” Prompto retorted with a good attempt at Cor’s own deadpan, which was ruined by the suspicious squint plastered all over his face. “Right?”

“I mean it  _is_ Monica,” Cor replied, suitably dubious. “She’d have good reason…”

“Dad!” Prompto snapped, and then tried his best not to laugh when he smacked Cor’s arm playfully and Cor laughed. Cor’s laugh was rare and always inviting, and this was no exception. “You’re a terrible person, I hope you’re aware.”

“Little bit,” Cor replied, and sobered up. “Do you think you can clean them up?”

“I can try, but it’s gonna be a pain,” Prompto sighed, “They’re probably only look passably good if we print them, but any digital images of these are gonna suck balls. Like. Massive balls. I don’t think these are even 100dpi, and I’m good, but if you want actual miracles, Luna’s gonna have to get involved.”

Cor licked his lips.

“Printed should be fine, I think.”

Prompto nodded.

“You’re gonna tell me why I’m cleaning up and printing twenty year old archive photos from old case files?” Prompto asked, blue eyes narrowed slightly.

Cor swallowed hard.

“I think… I think the people in those pictures, they’re your Dad’s family.”

Prompto stared at him and then reopened the files in his phone, squinting at them.

“Like, Grandma and Aunt Selena?” He asked, a tiny ghost of wonder in his voice. “For  _real_?”

“Maybe,” Cor replied, quickly centering himself back in reality. “We won’t know until he sees them.”

“Oh man, he’s gonna freak  _so much_ , if they are!” Prompto said, beaming. “Holy shit, I think he’ll cry. Scratch that, he’s  _totally_ gonna cry.”

“We don’t know if they’re the right pictures,” Cor said, trying to reign in the excitement, because sometimes Prompto forgot himself, and… and he needed to not follow right after him, in the excitement train. “Won’t know until he sees them.”

“Well, we’ll know tonight, then!” Prompto declared, shoving the phone into the pockets of his pants and flashing Cor two thumbs up. “‘cause these babies just became priority and I’m definitely gonna be pulling some miracles, no Luna required after all.”

He was gone before Cor could argue the point. Well then. He had until that evening, to steel his nerves and actually do what he’d spent a good chunk of six years trying to do.

Right.

No big deal.


	154. year xiv. Cor finds a ghost of Galahd in an unexpected place, Nyx appreciates it

* * *

year xiv. Cor finds a ghost of Galahd in an unexpected place, Nyx appreciates it

* * *

 

“Like that?” Prompto asked, peering at the gas pump with wary respect as he slid the nozzle back into place.

“Like that,” Cor said, nodding, and then arched both eyebrows, somewhat mystified, “I’d have thought Cid would’ve taught you.”

Prompto shook his head vigorously.

“Cid said pumps were dangerous and I should stay away,” he explained, peering up at Cor with solemn eyes. “Literally, he said stay  _the hell_ away.”

Cor snorted and reached a hand to muse up Prompto’s hair. It was strange to see it dyed, though it was still soft and prone to sticking up every which way. Prompto grinned when Cor’s fingers slid through his hair into an affectionate pat.

“Hm,” Cor said, eying a stand of fruit settled in the parking lot of the rest stop. “Come on.”

Prompto followed as Cor towards the stand, staring at the baskets full of strawberries bigger than his own head. Bigger than Cor’s head even. Cor chatted with the seller, as they waited for Nyx to finish paying for the gas and whatever else he’d buy to carry them out all the way to dinner. Then Cor was carrying a basket with him back to the car, while Prompto had been entrusted a small bundle of fruit tightly wrapped in newspaper. Cor dropped the strawberries in the back of the car and undid the wrappings in the armful of fruit Prompto was carrying, just enough to grab something about the size of his hand: it was brown and… a bit like an egg, only much bigger. And the skin seemed to have hair, somehow.

“What’s that?” Prompto asked, frowning as Cor pulled out the knife he kept tucked inside his belt. It was the same folding kind that Nea liked to play with and which Prompto was not allowed anywhere near of. Prompto blinked as Cor twisted the knife until the blade was out, and then carefully sliced the fruit open. It was pink, inside. Not pale pink, but bright, solid pink. “Whoa.”

“Here,” Cor said, who still hadn’t told him what it was, as he cut off a tiny chunk and offered it to Prompto to bite right off the blade.

It was sweet, but not  _too_ sweet. It tasted like a lot of fruit Prompto had eaten before, only most of them at once, and not quite the exact taste either. Creamy and thick, almost… almost like avocado, only not, because there was a stringy kind of texture in it, too. It was hard to describe and unlike anything Prompto had ever tasted before. He was left licking his lips and frowning at it, not quite sure he wanted more, but also desperately wanting another chance to figure it out. Cor let him ponder on that for a moment, eating a slice himself, which is how Nyx found them.

He stared at the fruit in Cor’s hand.

“Where the hell did you even  _get_ that?” He asked, wandering over with that weird look on his face he sometimes got, whenever Cor did something that wasn’t bad, just surprising.

“Farm south the Disc,” Cor explained, and cut off a slice for Nyx, who bit it off the edge of the knife with a fascinated look on his face. “Galahdian couple settled in, some thirty years ago. Brought in a lot of stuff with them, stuff you can’t find anywhere else ‘cause it never took outside their land.”

Nyx made a quiet, reverent noise in the back of his throat. Prompto considered asking for a name, again, but his Dad had that look on his face, the thoughtful, quiet one, and he looked happy, leaning to stand closer to Cor. Instead he tugged at Cor’s belt, blue eyes bright, and basked in the smiles while he ate another slice.


	155. year xiii. prompto is having second thoughts about his training with tredd

* * *

_year xiii. prompto is having second thoughts about his training with tredd_

* * *

 

Tredd Furia fights by punching with  _fire_.

Upon realizing this fact, Prompto has three very critical realization in very quick succession. To wit:

Realization number one being that this is some videogame level bullshit and unfair to the nth degree. That’s not how actual soldiers in real life fight, or at least that’s what he always thought, from reading books about the history of swordsmanship in Lucis and all the tedious minutia Cor could tell him - sometimes, to be honest, Prompto asked Cor questions purely for the sake of having Cor answer them, rather than any real desire to know - that soldiers fight with lances and shields and swords and daggers and, sometimes, but not always, with guns - Prompto has read an obscene amount of history about guns and their uses, mostly because Scilpio is into that and at some point Prompto needed to do background reading to understand what the hell he was gonig on about.

But not Tredd Furia, apparently, giant, redheaded monster that he is. He just sets his fists on fire - like, literally on fire, because that’s a thing that happens now, in Prompto’s reality, and he’s not okay with that - and sets out to punch things into submission. Or in this case, not so much things, as Prompto.

Realization number two is that he’s going to come back as a vengeful spirit - because Tredd is very clearly going to kill him, what with the fact he’s trying to punch him  _with fucking fire_  - and then he’s going to spend eternity conjuring slugs into his sister’s drinks because honestly, and sincerely, and completely well meant: FUCK YOU, NEA.

However, neither revelation number one nor revelation number two were nearly as earth shattering or life altering as revelation number three, which was the sudden, crushing realization that  _magic was bullshit_.

Tredd laughed.

Prompto made a sound like a gerbil dying and dived for cover and it only made Tredd laugh  _harder_.


	156. year xx. prompto, alone in the wilderness, being followed by one of ramuh's messengers

* * *

_year xx. prompto, alone in the wilderness, being followed by one of ramuh's messengers_

* * *

 

“I know what you are,” Prompto says, voice soft, because the snowfield carries sound, and he’s not sure he’s not about to walk into a trap. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The raven stares down at him, haughty, as if it were offended Prompto would pretend to tell it what it can and cannot do. There’s a glimmer of purplish black to its feathers, something otherworldly about its eyes. They pin Prompto in place and make him feel… well, judged.

Prompto keeps his hands off his hair on sheer will alone, and bites his lip when the raven refuses to leave. It’s meant to be a good omen, that. Ravens mean dark skies ahead, as the proverb says, but…

But.

“I made a choice,” Prompto says, swallowing hard, as he stands up fully and throws the bag over his shoulder, ready to set out. “I knew what I was doing. I knew what I gave up. You shouldn’t be here.”

He turns away from the bird and starts walking towards the sprawling facility in atop the hill. Answers, Ardyn told him, would be waiting for him there. Prompto steels his nerves and makes sure his steps are even, but he can’t help but feel a little comforted, when he sees the raven fly overhead, as if pointing the way.


	157. year xx. prompto is very galahdian and all his friends... aren't

* * *

_year xx. prompto is very galahdian and all his friends... aren't_

* * *

 

“We’re alive!” Prompto announces, fist shooting up above his head with a little hoot of joy.

Ravus, for all he feels mostly overwhelmed by the exuberance the blond insists on exuding with every breath he takes, feels inclined to agree. Behemoths are not one of his favorite creatures in the world, and this recent run-in with Dead-eye has certainly not made him likely to change his opinion, except to add that he hopes they all die in a fire, too. It has been a stressful week followed by a stressful night topped off by a stressful battle, and frankly, he has never seen anything quite as glorious as the sun slowly crawling up in the horizon, finally cutting through the infernal fog they had spent the better part of four hours navigating while trying not to get eaten by the aforementioned behemoth, who had, incidently, died in a fire, the bastard.

“Let’s celebrate by eating something dead!” 

Ravus is mildly comforted - only mildly, mind - to realize he’s not the only one staring.

Prompto stares right back.

“What?” He says, shrugging. “Don’t look at the gift BBQ in the mouth!” There’s a small pause. “Or the face. Or the charred bits.”

“We’re not going to eat Dead-eye,” Noctis says, in the pained tones of someone not quite sure why he’s being forced to state the obvious so bluntly.

Prompto looks around the group, snorting.

“No,” Ignis says, succinct and sensible and to the point, which is basically everything that makes him take the top of the list of people Ravus does not actively avoid interacting with.

“I didn’t even know this was an option,” Luna mutters, and then shakes her head vigorously, because Ravus’ sister is not, in fact, a fucking maniac. “But still. Um. No.”

Prompto turns to Gladio, almost expectant.

“I’m not sure even a good cup of noodles could save this trainwreck, Prompto.”

At last, Prompto turns to Ravus.

“The very idea,” he begins, quite ready to enunciate every reason why that’d be madness, “is simply-”

“Oh,  _shut up_ , Ravus,” Prompto snorts, rolling his eyes. “Fine, I can take a hint.” He goes on, utterly ignoring Ravus’ spluttering outrage. “I just want you all to know you’re wasting a perfectly serviceable meal for… three hundred and change, and I’m basically judging you for it.”


	158. year xviii. prompto helps luna run away for one night, to celebrate her birthday with her fiance

* * *

_year xviii. prompto helps luna run away for one night, to celebrate her birthday with her fiance_

* * *

 

“I brought flowers, Your Highness,” Prompto says, holding onto a vase nearly as big as he was tall, full of bright blooms, peering at the open door casually.

Luna stares and stares and then nods.

“You can leave them by the table,” she says, closing the book she was reading and watching Prompto take the vase and leave it on the table. “Thank you.”

He bows ceremoniously, the great git, and it takes all of Luna’s self-control to not snicker as she nods again and then watches him walk out of the room all meek and proper.

About forty minutes later, she walks out of the lift to the second floor of the Citadel’s parking lot, clad in the slightly ill-fitting Kingsglaive uniform of Prompto’s sister - which had been rather artfully folded inside the vase, boots and all - and finds him waiting for her, leaning on his bike and looking nonchalant.

“I can’t believe that actually worked,” Luna blurts out, taking the helmet and taking a moment to stare before she slides it on.

“ _I_  can,” Prompto replies rather cheerfully, “but then I deal with the idiots from ‘ _security_ ’,” he adds sarcastic quotation marks with his fingers, which makes Luna swallow back an undignified snicker. “I bet you it’s going to take months for them to realize what happened.”

“I feel terrible,” Luna says, mounting the bike and scooting forward until she’s pressed right against his back, “mother will be furious. And Ravus.”

“I mean, it’s your birthday and your fiance thinks you deserve it,” Prompto says, looking over his shoulder, holding his own helmet in his hands. “I agree, by the way, but no one asked me. But if you really don’t want to do it, this is the moment to say so, and I’ll sneak you back inside and no one will ever know.”

Luna frowns and frowns and then nods determinedly.

“Just one night,” she says, giddy with the thrill of the forbidden, “and no one will get hurt.”

Prompto says nothing, but he grins and slides the helmet on. Luna clings to his back and squeaks in surprise when the bike roars to life.


	159. year xx. one of these days, prompto is really going to murder ravus, and not a jury in the world will convict him for it

* * *

_year xx. one of these days, prompto is really going to murder ravus, and not a jury in the world will convict him for it_

* * *

 

Prompto tackles Ravus to the ground.

It’s a lot harder than it sounds, actually. Ravus is nearly seven feet of bad mood and really fucking solid muscle - ow - and really pointy edges -  _ow_ \- and Prompto’s… not. Still, there’s something to be said, about momentum.

“Shut up,” Prompto snorts, sort of awkwardly kneeling on top of him, hands pressed tightly over his mouth. “They’re the self-destruct-y ones, which are a bitch and a half to kill and leave fucking craters behind when they go. You gotta be  _stealthy_ for this, understand?”

Ravus stares up at him for a long, long moment and quite a bizarre moment of un-Ravus-ness, licks his palm.

Prompto doesn’t squeak, because Prompto is a motherfucking professional saboteur.

(Prompto does, however, have to fight the urge to stab Ravus in his dumb weird face, and he gives him a look that says so as he rubs his hand furiously against his thigh.)

“Stealth is overrated,” Ravus says, in the snottiest voice Prompto has ever had the misfortune of hearing. He stands up, regardless of Prompto’s place perched on his hips, and sneers when the blond squeaks and scrambles back to his feet. “This is what magic is for,” he adds, the absolute fucking turnip, snapping his fingers at the corridor and releasing a web of lightning that bounced off the walls and pretty much fries the entirety of the MT troopers that lined up the walls.

Prompto is equally impressed and aroused by the display, and also utterly annoyed with himself for it.

Stupid fucking hot lamppost with lightning magic.

Fucker.

“I hate you,” he says, when Ravus looks at him with an arched eyebrow, clearly expecting praise. Then the ceiling shakes as the building is rocked by successive explosions as the remaining troopers go into that annoying self-destruct subroutine that… oh, yeah, “also, I fucking told you so.”

Ravus looks putout like someone told him he couldn’t have a second serving of icecream, not that they were about to die.

 _Asshole_.

“Well, that’s obnoxious,” he says, muttering under his breath and Prompto will shoot him, he swears to all things holy, he will shoot the motherfucker, once he’s done not dying.

 _Fuck_.


	160. year xv. iris teaches prompto the value of charm bracelets

* * *

_year xv. iris teaches prompto the value of charm bracelets_

* * *

 

“So it’s all in your wrist,” Iris explained, showing off the sharp, quick motion of her hand as she used the little hook at the tip of the needle to loop the thread into a not-quite-knot that was actually a stitch. “And then you do it over and over again, til you get a bracelet! You can hang all sorts of things from these, too!”

“Ahhh,” Prompto replied, nodding slowly. “Looks hard, though.”

“It totally isn’t,” Iris insisted, grinning, “you just… you just gotta get used to the motion, then it’s easy!”

Prompto hummed and frowned at the tools in his hands. He supposed it was something like knitting, only smaller and fiddlier. He hadn’t been very good at knitting either, back when Cor had taught his dad and his dad had taught him. But then, Iris had looked at him with huge, pleading eyes and he was a sucker for those: he had chipped nail polish pretty much always for that very reason. You couldn’t say no, to Iris Amicitia. It just wasn’t done.

“They’re great good luck charms,” Iris said, fingers moving fast and confident, “you know, for good grades on exams or getting boys or girls to like you.” She paused. “For people coming home safe.”

Prompto smiled and nodded, and the next time he saw Gladio with a string of finely woven thread wrapped around his wrist, plastic trinkets painted gold hanging from it?

He didn’t say a thing.


	161. year xx. crowe and jeanne meet for the first time

* * *

_year xx. crowe and jeanne meet for the first time_

* * *

 

“That’s not an Iron Giant,” Jeanne whispered, watching the red monstrosity crawling out of the ground, its sword igniting as it let out a terrifying roar. “That’s not… Red giants don’t appear this close up to Lestallum. We have  _light_ here.”

“Had,” Crowe snorted, frowning, “remember? Blown generator means half power means half the light.”

“That’s not how that works,” Jeanne shrieked, and then stumbled back because there was another red giant crawling slowly up the ground.

“Look, lady,” Crowe shook her head, “I’m here for the eye candy and the occasional magic missile strike, science is not my thing. If you disagree with the assessment take it to the folk from the plant that gave it to us this morning.”

“Don’t think I won’t!” Jeanne said, and then paled when she realized Crowe wasn’t retreating towards the brighter lit street closer to the city limits. “What are you doing?”

Crowe stared at her a little.

“There’s red giants less than fifty feet away from city limits, what do you  _think_ I’m doing?”

“You can’t fight them alone!” Jeanne exclaimed, eyes wide. “It takes up to twenty hunters to take down a single one of those, nevermind  _two_.”

Crowe snorted and rolled her sleeves as she stared at the daemons slowly, thunderously approaching the edge of the lights. She missed her uniform. Her uniform didn’t have sleeves to get in the way. Well, no point in worrying about that. Her cover was going to get pretty dang blown in about thirty seconds anyway.

“Good thing I’m not a hunter, huh,” she said, grinning as her eyes gleamed and she felt magic tingling viciously under her skin. “You only ever need one of me to get a job done.”

Jeanne opened her mouth to ask about the same time Crowe released the tricast spell: fire folding into lightning then freezing into ice. When the ice shattered, a few seconds later, the red giants shattered with it, exploding into iridescent dust that floated up into the sky.

“Shit,” Jeanne said, staring as Crowe dusted her palms despite the fact that hadn’t even registered as warmup. “You’re–That’s  _hot_.”

Crowe grinned, winking.

“I mean yes, but you can just call me Crowe.”


	162. year xx. ignis and sylvia on ignis' blindness

* * *

_year xx. ignis and sylvia on ignis' blindness_

* * *

 

She found him pawning at the grand piano that served as centerpiece of the music room in the Royal apartments. His fingers slipped through the keys, missing the same notes she used to nag him about, that he always had to look down and keep track of. If he’d had time to practice enough, he would have grown out of it, but he’d chosen the path that ran closest to the Prince, and that had left him little to no time to himself.

She couldn’t judge, she’d done the same for Regis and she didn’t even love the soft-spoken idiot nearly as much as Ignis loved Noctis.

And oh, no one doubted anymore, that Ignis loved his Prince, now.

“I’m sorry,” Ignis said, standing up abruptly, startled by the sound of her heels clicking on the checkered marble floors. “I was just-”

“Assassinating a perfectly serviceable piece of music, yes,” Sylvia interrupted dryly, and resisted the urge to snort when he startled again at the sound of her voice.

But then he smiled, head tilted sideways, as if aiming his ears to better hear her, and his smile was open and pleased and just borderline shy enough for her to know he probably didn’t realize it was on his face.

“I suppose I was, Ma’am,” Ignis replied, shoulders slumping just enough to be relaxed but not enough to be undecorous. She’d trained him well, after all. “Not much hope of me stopping anytime soon, either.”

“Not with that attitude, no,” she said, before she could think better of it, and then walked further into the room, reaching a hand to hold his shoulder, feeling it tense and shift under her fingers. “Sit down, and let me hear you again.”

Ignis got as far as to sit down, inching sideways to let her sit with him on the bench - and he was ten again, stubborn and determined to play, because he’d dared risk admitting he was fond of the sound of the instrument, and someone had sneered at him for it. But now… Ignis stilled, again, fingers half curled above the keys, and let his head drop on reflex.

“I can’t read the music anymore,” he whispered, and didn’t know why it hit him so hard to admit it, why now of all times, when he’d managed to hold himself together so well so far.

Three whole months, from the depths of the Empire to Insomnia, and it never felt this raw, bubbling poisonously in the back of his throat. He was horrified to realize there was dampness at the corner of his eyes, itching at the corner of the scars.

“It’s alright,” Sylvia said, and it was lofty and matter-of-fact, not gentle at all, for all it made Ignis’ throat creak, like old wood about to splinter. “That implies you ever  _could_.”

He didn’t feel like laughing - hadn’t feel like laughing, since he stared death in the face and then sank into darkness, for Noct’s sake, all for him - but he still somehow ended up choking on a snort, fingers shaking. He didn’t flinch when she grabbed his left hand and placed it on the keys, and he was ten again, he kept wanting to be ten again, the world ripe at his fingertips, without any idea of what was waiting for him down the road.

“Will you be my accompaniment for this piece?” He asked, small and vulnerable and still trying very hard not to burst into ugly sobs.

“Just this once,” Sylvia whispered, and let her fingers caress the keys, the resulting harmony echoing in the room. “You must learn to carry the piece all on your own, my dear,” she said, falling easy into the familiar notes of Ignis’ favorite waltz, “I will not be here forever.”

Ignis meditated on the truth of that statement, and all that it meant, but said nothing, because he couldn’t get words past the tears stuck to the roof of his mouth. So he played, instead, and felt keenly grateful when she didn’t point out every time his fingers slipped and pressed the wrong key.

It wasn’t perfect, no, but it was functional.

Serviceable.

It would have to do.


	163. year xiii. Cor and the aftermath of the kidnapping

* * *

_year xiii. Cor and the aftermath of the kidnapping_

* * *

 

He holds and he holds and he holds, right up until they tuck Prompto back in his own bed, and then close the door. They walk back to their room in silence, and there’s the tension in the air, vicious and feral and unsure, and as soon as Nyx closes the door, Cor says:

“Excuse me,” and vanishes into the bathroom in three long strides, before he’s hurling up dinner in one go.

Because he’s. Been holding. For about three days all together. Dinner was a granola bar two days ago. Cor retches acid and it burns all the way up to his nose, making his eyes water and it’s gross but not as gross as the stench of blood and shit and piss that follows a good rampage. He’s supposed to be over this. He’s supposed to be done. He was done.

And then they took his son.

“Come here,” Nyx whispers, one hand on his back, steady pressure grounding him, and tugs him back to his feet.

Cor shuts down out of self-preservation, because the alternative is screaming and going right back where he left off, and he’s  _done_. He’s done. 

At least, he thinks with a hysterical kind of humor, he still remembered how to murder someone without giving them a chance to scream. But he also remembered, kind of all at once, all the ones he killed and did scream, and it made his skin itch and feel like it was going to open up in sores.

It was going to be a long time, now, before there was quiet between his ears.


	164. year xix. prompto and ignis being friends, despite it all

* * *

_year xix. prompto and ignis being friends, despite it all_

* * *

 

Things had been awkward, the year after Prompto and Gladio broke up and Gladio and Ignis started dating. There were a lot of boundaries that needed to be redrawn and figured out, and Ignis admitted he was grateful Prompto was the kind of person who wanted them to figure out everything as soon as possible, so they could go back to being friends already, instead of the sort that kept his distance. Ignis would have obliged, of course, but he liked being friends with Prompto, for all Ignis was quite certain the blond was at the very least as certifiably insane as his parents were.

(Combat selfies.  _Really_.)

But then things had been what they were, and Ignis found himself sharing the guestroom’s bed at Prompto’s house with Gladio and… and it was terrifying, really. He knew the sensible thing would be to run away and go right back where he belonged, but  _he didn’t want to_. He wanted to stay right where he was, Gladio’s arms nice and secure around him, and the promise that, whatever madness came to happen, they’d face it together.

He didn’t even have the excuse of Prompto not wanting him in his home, to rationalize giving into sense and going back. Because Prompto had gotten that look on his face, when they’d told him, sitting in the living room of Noctis’ apartment. It was the same look that came to him whenever someone said something untoward, about Galahd and its people. Violence followed in short notice, after that look. But instead of that, he’d grabbed their hands, Gladio’s in his left hand and Ignis’ in his right - and Ignis realized Prompto had rather large hands, proportionally to the rest of him, because he could hold both of Ignis’ in one of his, and that was something he’d never noticed at all - and told them solemnly it’d be alright.

There had been another panicky moment, with Prompto’s father, a moment where Ignis felt the floor drop beneath his feet as he came face to face with the reality of what it meant for him to impose on Prompto’s hospitality - hospitality he probably couldn’t offer on his own even - and instead Nyx Ulric had shrugged and promised them it would be alright, with a solemn certainty that looked and felt and sounded like Prompto’s, but aged, like wine.

So now there was Ignis, slowly sneaking downstairs to maybe put breakfast together and offer a semblance of gratitude, so early in the morning the sky was still dark. He blinked and found Cor and Prompto sitting on the steps by the garden door, sharing coffee and quiet, and felt his face heat up when they looked up at him, as if to point out his sneaking skills were subpar. Which, considering who lived in this house, they probably were.

“Coffee?” Cor asked, not unkind, but also quiet and short and to the point, and Ignis tried and failed to not be utterly intimidated as he stood up.

“Yes, thank you,” he said, and didn’t dare ask for anything more specific, because it felt terribly uncouth to do so.

“He likes it black, no sugar at all,” Prompto offered in his stead, and winked when Ignis stared at him. “You have to tell Cor if you don’t want sugar in your meals, ‘cause by default he’ll put some in it.” There was a pause and a snicker. “Or  _a lot_.”

“You put honey in your coffee, you don’t get to judge,” Cor grumbled from the kitchen, serving Ignis into a black mug that grew bright white letters when the hot coffee hit it - it read:  _Fuck off, I’m having coffee_ \- and felt like another of those things that Ignis had learned in the last few hours, about Prompto and life in his home, that made him feel like he was intruding.

“You taught me to put honey in it,” Prompto shot back, leaning on the counter with a mug of his own - a battered, chipped old thing, with a cactuar of all things plastered all around it and a rather innuendo-y legend to go with it. “I’ll judge you all I damn well want.”

Cor shook his head, mock-exasperated but clearly not upset about the glib - and oh, Prompto had glib, Prompto also had not concept about who he should or shouldn’t glib at and Ignis was starting to see why. He’d always known, of course. But it was one thing to know who the parents of one of his oldest, closest friends were, and it was something quite else entirely, to be allowed in their presence in the quiet, intimate moments where they were not… performing. 

“Here you go,” Cor said, putting the mug in Ignis’ hands and then reached out to ruffle Prompto’s hair affectionately. “Keep him busy and out of my kitchen.”

Prompto laughed before Ignis could splutter a coherent apology for overstepping his bounds, but by the time he’d composed himself, Cor was gone and Prompto was tugging him towards the steps.

“How are you feeling?” Prompto asked, soft and sincere as they sat there and waited for dawn to break.

Ignis considered his answer carefully.

“I could stand to be reminded,” he said, not looking at him, “that things will work out fine.”

Prompto wrapped his arms around his shoulders and tugged him into a hug almost on reflex.

“It’s going to be alright, Iggy,” he promised, “we’ll  _make_ it be alright.”


	165. year xx. cor gives nyx a gift, feelings ensue

* * *

_year xx. cor gives nyx a gift, feelings ensue_

* * *

 

“I did a thing,” Cor begins, with that little dip between his eyebrows that isn’t a frown proper but it’s getting there.

Nyx tilts his head to the side slightly, hopefully encouragingly, and nods.

“Okay,” he says, twisting open a bottle of beer and passing it along the counter to where Cor’s looking more and more like he’s not quite sure where to start or if he should abort mission all together.

Nyx is amused more than anything. Cor doesn’t go out of his way to piss him off, really, and there’s very few things he can think of that Cor could even do, that would piss him off. And Cor wouldn’t consciously do any of those.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Cor goes on, rolling the beer bottle in his hand and looking at him somewhat warily. “But I’m now wondering if I haven’t overstepped my place.”

“Fair enough,” Nyx says, uncapping a bottle for himself, and leaning on the counter. “But you won’t know for sure unless you tell me.”

Cor licks his lips.

“You told me, a while go, that Libertus and Crowe held a funeral for you, when they thought you’d died,” he says, slow and careful, and Nyx doesn’t mean to frown, but he does, and then worse than that, his entire face freezes there, while he tries to process where the hell Cor is going with that. “That they burned your… shrine to your family, in your name.”

“Yes,” Nyx replies, neutral, unsure how to feel or if there’s anything more to say to that.

“The thing is, you were under suspicion of treason, at the time,” Cor explains, frowning and dropping his eyes to the beer, voice softening. “And that meant your personal effects had to have been seized by the Crownsguard as part of the investigation. Libertus and Crowe burned them but only after the Crownsguard released them to them, after they were processed.”

“So the Crownsguard fondled my stuff before it got burned,” Nyx says, aiming for flippant and coming across as snide instead, and he hates the way it makes Cor flinch minutely, because… because it wasn’t Cor’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. This is why they don’t talk about the past, why they’ve promised to move on and keep their eyes on the horizon instead. It hurts less. “Sorry. Just. Yeah.”

“Right,” Cor sighs and takes a swing of his drink, as if to clear his mind. “Processing means archiving, even after the case is closed.” Nyx goes very still at that. “And, you know. You mentioned you had pictures, in all that. I can’t get you the trinkets back, because those got burned. Same with the originals, for your pictures. But if I could track down the casefiles in the archives, there was a chance there were copies of them. In there. So.”

Nyx swallows hard around the suddenly sharp ball of barbwire clogging up his windpipe.

“So you did a thing,” he whispers, fingers clutching the edge of the counter.

“I did a thing,” Cor agrees, shrugging. “And now I don’t know if it’ll hurt you to have them or if you’d rather I hadn’t brought it up at all.”

“Did you find them? Copies of them?” Nyx asks, licking his lips.

“Not very good copies, if you ask Prompto. But,” Cor let out a soft breath and pulled out a handful of glossy, freshly printed pictures from the inside pocket of his jacket. “it’s something.” And then, softly, hesitant, “if you want it.”

Nyx doesn’t answer, right away. Nyx stares and stares and slaps a hand over his mouth because…

“That’s my mum,” he whispers, and he’s not sure when or why he started crying, he just is, and it hurts sweet and tender under his ribs, because. “Cor. Cor, that’s my mum. That’s my  _sister_.”

It’s a very long time, before anything else gets said, after that.


	166. year iv. in which prompto has a dad, and also a cor

* * *

_year iv. in which prompto has a dad, and also a cor_

* * *

 

Sometimes - not always, but sometimes, when Prompto did something truly surprising - Cor got that look on his face, like he was staring up a new, monstrous creature he was supposed to deal with and didn’t know exactly how to approach it. Nyx got a not insignificant amount of petty satisfaction about it, to be perfectly honest, if nothing else because he had a feeling he made that face approximately every time Prompto did something new, which considering the boy was four,  _was nearly all the time_.

“Do you need a moment?” Nyx asked, teasingly, even though he slid an arm around Cor’s shoulders, tacitly inviting him to slump against his side.

Cor let out a tiny, confused grunt in the back of his throat, and only paused a moment before taking the offer. He leaned against Nyx’s side, sliding down with a little frown on his face.

“First one was really hard for me too,” Nyx added after a moment, as Cor continued to stare at the little contraption of glue, sticks, cardboard and liberal amounts of green paint like it might decide to randomly blow up at any moment.

Nyx had gotten a similar one, the day before, in fact, except his had a little tag that read  _World’s Best Dad_ in Prompto’s frankly obscenely illegible chicken scratch.

Cor’s said  _World’s Best ~~Dad~~  Cor_. The  _Dad_ was scratched over in a different color, same one the  _Cor_ had been written on, somewhat hastily, like it was done with a different type of paint and quite probably not while the rest of the little key stand - Letho said it was supposed to be a keystand, Prompto might have redesigned it a little for the sake of making it cactuar themed - had been originally made. It was the sort of stubborn, ridiculous thing Nyx expected from his son.

It was also clearly breaking Cor’s brain a little bit.

Nyx thought it was cute.


	167. year xix. ignis, gladio and first times...

* * *

_year xix. ignis, gladio and first times..._

* * *

 

“I have to get up,” Ignis said, staring blearily at the far wall across the room, over the scrunched up sheets on the other side of the bed, across the dark green carpeting that Sylvia had sighed loudly over because it looked like pool table felt in her opinion, but which Ignis was rather fond of, because it was the kind of soft plush that felt good to walk barefoot on.

Ignis took a moment to visualize what would be required, for getting up. He imagined reaching down and tugging Gladio’s arm off its perch, wrapped up snuggly around his waist, and then squirming along until he reached the edge of the bed. The bed was both ridiculously large and sinfully comfortable, both of them also by design. He set up three alarms every morning, one to wake up, one to stop basking in how comfortable he was, and one to actually stop procrastinating on it and get out of bed already. That morning, he had heard none of them.

It was a Sunday, of course, and the only real thing he had to do was tea with Sylvia in the afternoon, but still. Ignis had a routine. He liked his routine, for the most part, it carried him through his days and served him well enough. It was the principle of the whole thing. He woke up at five and got out of bed at five thirty, and the entire day went through like clockwork, precise and well thought out, and if he managed his time right, which he always did, he got four blessed hours all his own at the end of the day, to do with them as he pleased.

It was a bad sign, of course, if this… this kind of dalliance with Gladio would be the sort to disrupt a rhythm set and kept in motion for years. It was…

“Can’t help but notice,” Gladio murmured, voice low and slightly rough from lack of use, but without the drowsiness of sleep, which made Ignis flush and consider Gladio might have been waiting on him to wake up for a while, now. “That you haven’t gotten up yet.” There was a pause and a large, calloused hand sliding along the edge of his hips, to settle warm and massive over the dip of his navel. “Well, in  _some_ ways, at least.”

“Ah,” Ignis said, eyes half-lidded in lieu of giving to the urge to splutter, making his voice as long suffering as he could, because he categorically refused to be embarrassed, “ _there_ it is.”

Gladio chuckled and shifted, sliding more of his weight onto Ignis’ back, pressing him further into the bed that seemed to be sucking him in as it was.

“What is, Iggy?” Gladio asked, in the amused, chipper tone that let Ignis know he was being condescended to, and yet somehow made it impossible to be rightfully mad about it.

“The smugness,” Ignis sighed, and deigned to melt a little more, into the pocket of warmth that existed right between Gladio and the mattress. “It’s really not as attractive as you think it is.”

“Ain’t smug,” Gladio retorted, surprisingly stern, shifting in place until he finally entered Ignis’ field of vision, leaning over to frown at him. “I’m just. Y’know. Happy.”

And there was that thing, again, that made Ignis unsure, because he kept stumbling on bits and pieces of Gladio that seemed too fragile to really be his. It felt like being nine again, and demanding to use the good cups for tea and then finding the reality of fine china in his hands to be… terrifying. Except Gladio was infinitely more complex than Sylvia’s exquisite china and Ignis wanted him a lot more than that. He just. Didn’t know. What to do. With all that softness. He wasn’t  _made_  for soft. He didn’t dislike it, but it was… unexpected in places. Gladio had wormed his way into his bed by being witty, having excellent taste in wine and choosing the wrong side of a historical conflict to stand on, which allowed them to bicker their way through entreés and pasta, through the main course - which Gladio didn’t need to know was Ignis’ go to choice for “need to impress someone whose favorites are an unknown”, but which had pulled through as always - past dessert and straight into Ignis’ bed.

It had been… fun, by Ignis’ reckoning. Just not the kind of thing he’d associate with fun, because he thought of fun and thought of what Noct liked to call fun, which was more often than not something like a burst or an explosion, sometimes not quite fully metaphorical, of enjoyment. This had been… more like spinning a thread, slow and sustained and engaging and the next thing Ignis knew he had Gladio laying long as he was on his bed, staring up at him with another of those tiny, fragile china cups of surprises, which Ignis hoped he hadn’t handled as clumsily as he felt he had.

He wasn’t good with delicate. Or soft. Or nice, in general. Nice and soft and delicate never got shit done, and he had a schedule to keep up with.

“I should get out of bed,” Ignis said, neutral and calm, because that’s what he was good for, and then wrapped his arms around Gladio’s shoulders when they slumped minutely. “I did not say I  _wanted_ to.”

Gladio laughed against his throat and it was a lot more pleasant than Ignis would have expected it to be, but it was probably just the fact he was currently buried under his bulk and his bed was still as comfortable and nice as it’d ever been.

“So what happens if you  _don’t_ get up?” Gladio asked, shifting around until he had his elbows were on either side of Ignis’ head, his hands supporting his own.

“Chaos, usually,” Ignis replied sincerely, more than a little deadpan.

“Oh, well, if those are the stakes I guess I should get up, too,” Gladio teased, eyebrows arched.

Ignis realized he had his arms wrapped around Gladio’s waist when he dug his fingers into his back, as if to stop a motion that hadn’t even begun yet.

“Or,” Gladio went on, dark eyes glinting with amusement, leaning down to tuck his face up against Ignis’ throat, “I guess I could stay a little longer.”

“If you’d rather go,” Ignis began, awkward and keenly aware of it, and wishing for nothing more than the ability to not be so.

“No one cares if I don’t get up on Sundays,” Gladio offered simply, too simply, it made Ignis’ contrary nature want to argue the point, because of course someone should care to make sure Gladio was fine and up and around and just-

“I am a very poor choice for a rebound,” Ignis blurted out, and it was the worst possible thing to say, sharp and pointed and mean, which was why he’d spent most of the night before sitting on it and trying to cage it behind his teeth.

“I know,” Gladio said, not angry, but also not teasing. It was the sort of vulnerable, quiet tone that brought to mind images of stumbling prey leaving itself open to strike and still somehow hoping it wouldn’t be torn to pieces. “You’re not a rebound.”

Ignis dearly wished Gladio would stop leaving himself at his mercy. It was a well known fact he had  _none_.

And yet.

“Alright.”

He missed tea with Sylvia for the first time, ever, that Sunday. The worst part was that she wasn’t even mad, she just wanted to gossip about it.

Ignis endeavored to hold Gladio accountable for his reckless disregard for the well accepted truths of the universe and also for challenging Ignis to be… nice. It wasn’t fair, Ignis didn’t know how to back down from a challenge.


	168. year -xiii | Cor, Regis & Sweets (& first impressions)

* * *

_year -xiii | Cor, Regis & Sweets (& first impressions)_

* * *

 

Regis has seen Cor around, of course, always shadowing his father’s steps, face stern and blue eyes unnerving. There’s a vicious, terrifying quality to the boy, something that makes people either ignore him entirely, or keenly wish they could. Regis often finds himself guiltily falling into the second category, to be honest. It’s one thing, of course, to read about the War, to have tutors and taskmasters that do their honest best to cram as much history and tactics and terrible tales of slaughter sanitized into lessons about kingship into his head. And it’s quite another to stare at it in the hollow eyes of a war orphan so good at killing, Regis’ father called dibs on him.

But now there’s no way to ignore him, not when they’re locked up in a tiny dark room, waiting for the worst of a riot to stop. Cor is seventeen years old, according to his official file, because even Regis’ father has enough sense to not publically announce he’s put a fourteen year old in charge of his personal security. Even though he has. He looks sort of twelve, Regis thinks, barely tall enough to reach his sternum. Thin. Pale. Back so ramrod straight there’d be a joke about sticks in unmentionable places to be made, if he were old enough for it to not be creepy.

There’s also the fact Regis just watched him cleave a man in half with one deft twitch of his wrist, and do it with enough finesse to not bathe them both in the resulting shower of blood.

He looks  _twelve_.

Regis didn’t puke. 

He’s the Prince, Heir to the Crystal and the Ring, Hope and Future of Lucis. He can’t puke just because he’d never seen anyone die like that before, in all his nineteen years of life. He’d read about it, of course - tutors and taskmasters have made sure of it - and he’s always known weapons training is supposed to teach him how to do that, should the need arise. But the need had never shown its ugly face before, because Regis is never allowed outside on his own, or anywhere near the sort of places where this happens - he’s read about those, too, but now he’s also thinking the reality of that might be slightly too much for theory books to cover properly.

Regis swallows silky spit and stubbornly commands his lunch to stay right where it is. He is nineteen years old and Heir to the Throne. He will not puke.

He will not.

“You look like shit,” Cor tells him, hopping down a set of crates with nimble steps, even though each crate is about as tall as he is.

He comes to a stop before Regis, looking up - of course he has to look up, he’s all of fourteen going on twelve, and he looks no more ruffled than he’d been that morning, on being told he’d be accompanying Regis, rather than Regis’ father for the day - with sharp, narrowed eyes.

“I look like I feel, yes,” Regis mutters, not quite sure how to address the boy - the boy who deadpan snarks at his father with an ease Regis is frankly jealous of, considering Cor gets snorts for his troubles, whereas all Regis’ wit has ever got him are unkind remarks on unprincely behavior - that looks twelve and just saved his life. “That’s something.”

Cor blinks up at him, slow and thoughtful, and Regis thinks of that video he found, of the giant, vicious snakes said to nestle somewhere in the Vesperpool. He’d gotten in trouble, for watching that, he remembers vividly. Hunter propaganda, his tutor in turn had said, before going on an impassioned lecture about lawless brutes making a mockery of the noble and honorable Crownsguard. Regis hadn’t liked that tutor very much, but it had taken him months before he could postulate his dislike in a way that his father deemed reasonable enough to remove him. Everything has to be reasonable, when it comes to his father. Everything has to be debatable and defensible.

“You’re an idiot,” Cor tells him, not bothering to hide the fact he’s rolling his eyes at him.

If Regis were fifteen and still a brat, he reckons he would throw a tantrum about it because that’s technically treason and deep in his soul he hates the fact Mors so very clearly favors Cor over him. Cor is welcome in his father’s study and his war council, and he knows from what Clarus has told him - it’s not gossip, if it’s his Shield who does the gossiping and they can reasonably call it Stately Affairs - that Cor’s allowed to speak in his father’s study and his war council, which is not something many people aside Clarus’ father can pride themselves on.

But he’s not fifteen and a brat, he’s nineteen and sick to bursting with the nonexistent stench of death all but oozing out of the boy he should hate and can’t bring himself to.

“Undoubtedly,” Regis says, swallowing hard again, because he’s decreted the fact he will not soil himself over this.

At least not in public, not where Cor might see. Maybe later, when he’s home and Wes’ made the tiny cookies with with the dollop of chocolate in the center that give Regis’ life meaning. And maybe if Clarus manages to sneak out a bottle of the good whiskey from his father’s liquor cabinet. Then he’ll be sick and cry over the fact Cor is fourteen and infinitely better at killing than he’ll ever be. He ever wants to be.

“It’s okay,” Cor says, after another moment of awkward, terrible silence that only makes the chaos outside echo louder. “They’re not going to get you.”

Regis wants to laugh. Also maybe scream. And cry. Definitely cry.

“You’ve made that abundantly clear, yes,” he says, trying for dry and landing somewhere in the ballpark of quietly hysterical, which wasn’t even a thing he knew existed, until this very moment. “So very clear.”

Cor sighs.

It’s a very loud, theatrical sigh. It’s a sigh that, unlike that frighteningly deadly flick of his wrists, seems perfectly in line with a put upon teenager dealing with something he doesn’t want to. Why, Regis himself used to be an expert of that sigh, when he was fifteen and he dragged his feet through six hours weekly of Sylvia stepping on his feet until he learned how to ballroom dance properly.

And then Cor pulls out a chocolate bar out of crystals and void, staring up at Regis like he’s making a titanic effort that he clearly expects to go unappreciated.

“Eat,” he commands, with the air of someone speaking sense, and shoves the candy into Regis’ chest.

“You keep chocolate in the armiger,” Regis says instead, staring and unable to will himself to stop.

“Eat the fucking chocolate,” Cor snaps, a splash of scarlet settled nicely on the bridge of his nose. “It’ll help with the panic.”

“I’m not panicking,” Regis splutters, and then realizes he’s halfway done unwrapping the chocolate bar.

Cor stares at him unblinking for a long moment, before he rolls his eyes again.

“God, you’re worse than Luca.”

Then he turns around and hops up the crates again, to peer at the tiny window into the outside world. Regis finds himself sitting on the floor, nibbling on the offered treat. It’s good chocolate, rich and thick, the kind that leaves a taste that lingers. It settles nicely in his belly, which he supposes kind of proves Cor’s point about the panic attack he desperately wants to believe he isn’t having.

“It’s not your fault,” Cor tells him, a while later, sitting on a crate and looking down on him. “Mors knew it’d end like this, that’s why he told me to stick around.”

“My father sent me out to face a riot on purpose?” Regis asks, disbelieving, because for all his father always seems to be disappointed in his efforts, he’s never been outright cruel about it.

That’s what makes it sting, really. The fact his failures are always met with bland acceptance, as if they were not only expected but accounted for.

“He wanted to know if you’re ready,” Cor explains, frowning as if he’s annoyed Regis needs this explained in the first place. “For your trip.”

“So this was a test,” Regis summarizes, feeling the sugar high drop abruptly and wondering if he could get away with asking Cor for another treat. “That I just failed spectacularly. Good to know.”

Cor is staring again.

“No,” he says slowly, like Regis needs him to enunciate big words gently so he may grasp their meaning, “you passed.” His skepticism must be showing clear on his face, Regis reckons, because Cor rolls his eyes again. “You met a mob armed with sticks and stones and didn’t massacre them with magic.” 

“No,” Regis snarls, and decides standing up was a bad idea when the entire world swoops down to his knees for a moment. “I let you massacre them for me.”

“Well, yes,” Cor says, all of fourteen years old and making Regis ill just by existing. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“ _Why_ ,” Regis demands, despairingly, only he never meant to ask it out loud.

Cor isn’t mad. It would be better if he were, but he isn’t, because Cor is a difficult little shithead, Regis is quickly realizing, and still unbearably hard to actually  _hate_.

“Because,” he says, weirdly, hauntingly  _gentle_ , “that’s what I’m made for.” He shrugs at this well-known, well-accepted truth. “People like me are good at this, so people like you don’t have to be.”

“That is so profoundly fucked up, I don’t have the words to argue with it,” Regis replies, at loss as to where to even start.

Cor snickers, and then he smiles. He’s got a crooked grin that doesn’t quite distract from the fact he’s got  _fangs_  in his mouth. Because of course he does. It’s not the look Regis thinks is suitable for a cold-blooded killer. Regis’ entire view of the world depends on that fact, at the moment.

“Good,” Cor says, teeth apparently as sharp as his eyes and his sword and his  _everything_. “It doesn’t need arguing.”

Regis decides, right there and then, that it does. It will be. He refuses to be King of a kingdom where people like Cor are forced to become what he is. He  _refuses_.

Then his stomach rumbles loudly, ruining the self-righteous mood entirely.

“…you wouldn’t happen to have more chocolate in there, would you?”

Cor stares down his nose at him.

“Yes,” he says, and nothing more.

Regis waits for a reasonable amount of time, during which he gets the distinct impression Cor is laughing at him, somehow without actually laughing. It’s eerie and unpleasant and Regis doesn’t like it.

“…so, are you going to give me some?”

Cor is definitely laughing at him and Regis sort of maybe wants to strangle him. Even though he looks like he’s twelve. Mostly because he’s acting like he is.

"No,” Cor deadpans, and Regis gets the sinking feeling he’s going to be hearing that voice in his nightmares for the rest of his life, “pity samples stop at one.”


	169. year -ii | Nyx and Drautos bonding

* * *

_year -ii | Nyx and Drautos bonding_

* * *

 

Nyx realizes, pretty quickly, that none of the kids - they’re kids, all of them, no braids in their heads, no real hate in their bones - in his unit had ever seen actual combat before, except for Pelna, Libertus and himself. They all huddle together inside the van and keep deadly quiet because the Commander is sitting in the passenger seat at the front, staring at his phone and not paying attention to any of them.

Nyx stares and stares and stares, sick of the silence and the weight of the empty seats in the van, after a disastrous first outing that could have been worse, but only if no one actually came back alive. He catches Libertus’ eye and ignores the resignation there, when he opens his mouth and cracks a joke so irreverent half the van is caught in outraged silence and the other half is trying really hard not to laugh.

They do laugh, in the end, after the third one, which is callous and vicious and mocks the dead sharply enough someone - Luche - throws themselves at Nyx, fingers curled into claws. Nyx forces himself to laugh while he rolls into the van’s floor, pinning Luche down and stubbornly ignoring the tears in his eyes.

He’s not laughing when the Commander calls him into his office, upon reaching Insomnia; all he wants is to fall into a bed and ignore the screaming between his ears. Libertus promises to save him a beer, when he’s done. Nyx doesn’t have the heart to say no.

“You did good today,” the Commander tells him, blunt and to the point, in a way that Nyx is quickly learning to find almost comforting.

He knows where he stands, with the Commander. He’s a harsh taskmaster and he tolerates no failure, but he’s fair and upfront and he doesn’t pile on them unnecessary Lucian bullshit. It’s… refreshing, even.

“I was well trained,” Nyx replies, rather than take the praise, because sixteen out of forty are dead, and though the dead must care for the dead, the living can’t help but feel their weight.

They really thought magic would make a difference, is the thing. Nyx knew war before the magic of the King boiling in his veins, he knows there’s no before or after, only war. But the others… the others had hoped. In the most bitter corners of their souls, they’d thought Galahd had fallen because no one else had bothered to try and help. Surely the King and his magic would have turned the tides, changed the course of the war. But now they know the truth and it stings too deep for them not to weep.

“I meant after,” the Commander says, snorting at a joke only he understands. “You made them crack and crawl back.”

“They were well trained,” Nyx says, careful, measuring, “but you cannot train for war. Not in the sense of… being ready for it, if you’ve never seen it up front before.”

The Commander stares at him, and Nyx wonders if he’s pushed too hard. He chafes under authority, he knows. They all do. Insomnians insist on lines and hierarchies and ceremonies, and they’re all strange and stupid and unexplained. But he’s a soldier. He’s. Been a soldier. Before. He remembers how they did things, back home. He’s been trying, because he also remembers how poorly things worked out, back home. So maybe… maybe Insomnians do know something about all this. Maybe it’s all bullshit.

“How old were you,” the Commander asks, frowning, rather than chastise him for speaking out of turn, “when you joined?”

Nyx considers telling him eighteen, which is good and proper and the truth, considering that’s how old he was, when he joined the Kingsglaive. But there’s a haunted look on the Commander’s face, a certain dawning horror as he realizes something about Nyx, and Nyx…

Nyx could use the camaraderie.

Or maybe he’s too tired and too hollow to care.

“Thirteen,” he says, staring right into the Commander’s eyes. “Thought I could make a difference. But… well. Soldiers don’t actually win wars, do they?”

The Commander is silent for a long moment, and then he licks his lips.

“No,” he says, at length, slowly sitting down in his chair, “we don’t. Kings win wars, soldiers just die in them.” The Commander snorts. “Sit down, Ulric.”

“Am I in trouble, sir?” Nyx asks, even as he complies, taking one of the uncomfortably hard chairs before the desk.

“You are nothing  _but_ trouble, I’m well aware,” the Commander says, taking the bottle of pale amber whiskey off the corner of the desk and magicking glasses out of the armiger. Nyx considers why he never thought about that, before. “But not today, no. You did good, today.”

“I really didn’t,” Nyx whispers, grabbing the offered drink a little too eagerly, licking his suddenly dry lips.

“Lower the bar, or you’ll kill yourself trying to reach it,” the Commander advises, smirk wry.

“Is that how you do it?” Nyx asks, staring at the liquid in his glass, considering what happens if he tries to chug it back in one hit, like the Commander does, and he chokes on it.

“Among other things,” he says, “I was fifteen, myself, when I became what I am today. You’ll get better at it, with practice.”

Nyx swallows hard and knocks back the shot, shuddering as his mouth and his throat felt like they were sizzling in place.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he chokes out, eyes watery with something more than just ill attempts at drinking booze.

The Commander laughs, at that, but it isn’t mean at all. 


	170. year xviii | alternative funding methods for the kingsglaive (featuring the crownsguard)

* * *

_year xviii | alternative funding methods for the kingsglaive (featuring the crownsguard)_

* * *

 

“It’s for a good cause,” Sonitus explained, leaning back on the backrest of the booth, arms hooked on it, as he smirked. “You’re a sucker for those.”

“Your personal lack of entertainment does not a charity make,” Dustin replied, one eyebrow arched severely. “How is any of this fitting of any definition of good?”

“Ugh, Ackers,” Sonitus said in disgust, rolling his eyes. “Here’s the thing,” he began, and then went on a four hour long tirade about the economic breakdown as a result of the latest news about the Empire, the reconsideration of the war, the Niflheim refugees and the fact the city had spent some twelve years or so assured of the fact the war was over.

He provided citations. He made Ackers google them to verify them, because he was pissed at him. Sonitus flared his nostrils in annoyance and went on rant about the Council for forty minutes more, just because.

“Fine, fine!” Dustin demanded, sometime around eleven, holding his head in his hands. “Oh, will you stop if I agree?”

Sonitus grinned.

“I mean, if you buy me a pint, maybe.”

Dustin glared and pointed towards the door.

“Get out, I’ll send you the paperwork on monday.”

Sonitus laughed.

“Lovely making business with you, Ackers,” he said, offering a wholly mocking salute, “as always.”

Dustin stared and stared and, as proof that Sonitus had truly broken the man this time around, snarled in a souless deadpan:

“Die in a fire, Bellum.”


	171. year xx | Prompto explains exactly why he doesn't drive (cars, that is)

* * *

_year xx | Prompto explains exactly why he doesn't drive (cars, that is)_

* * *

 

“Maybe you should drive,” Luna said, eyebrows arched, staring at Noct, who snorted and shook his head. “Okay, but what about you, Gladio? Or you, Prompto. We can’t just make Ignis drive us everywhere.”

“I’d prefer it,” Ignis murmured laconically, staring down his mug like a man contemplating emptying an entire bottle of whiskey into it.

“Prompto doesn’t drive,” Gladio said with an obvious air of finality, rather than answer for himself.

“I totally super don’t,” Prompto agreed, popping open a bottle of soda with a shudder. “It’s A Whole Thing, me not driving.”

“Yeah,” Noctis said, nodding sagely, “Prompto won’t touch it if it’s got more than two wheels.”

“Why?” Luna asked, blinking.

Prompto and Gladio shared A Look.

“Matter of fact, I don’t recall you ever explaining why,” Ignis pointed out, frowning. “Though I know for a fact you have a license.”

Because Prompto was Crownsguard, and all Crownsguard had driving licenses. It was part of the program. Noctis scowled to himself, as if only realizing he too did not know the secret to Prompto’s utter disdain for cars.

Prompto sighed. It was a very loud sigh, the kind that made his shoulders slump. Gladio drowned his beer and immediately cracked open another one.

“Oh boy,” he said, smirking wryly, “here we go.”

“So let me tell you the story about the time I hit an Anak the first time I got car privileges to drive out of Insomnia,” Prompto began, stoically ignoring Gladio’s unseemly cackling with unshakable aplomb.  "I get my license, right? Because Crownsguard. And because Cor is like. The  _worst_ … The utter fucking worst?” Prompto rolled his eyes. “He’s like. Hey. It’s Cid’s birthday this weekend and we’re tied up with Citadel bullshit. Why don’t you drive out to Hammerhead and drop stuff and just. Say hi to him.”

Gladio pressed his hands over his face, but at least he managed to stop cackling. The rest of their audience watched on, clearly enraptured by this tale of woe.

“And I’m like. Okay.  _Sure_. I can do that. Hammerhead’s like. Three hour drive. I can do that, I tell myself. And so I left at like six in the morning, because fuck Insomnian traffic, right?” Prompto opened another soda. Chugged back half of it in one go. “And I get there about eleven. Taka made chili con carne and it was divine. Cindy whined that the car was dirty and made me wash it. Cid liked his presents and gave me like. Three thousand gil to burn around the store. It was  _nice_.” Another chug. “It was so nice. So it’s like. Seven by the time I’m leaving. And for some godawful reason, probably ‘cause I was seventeen and fucking  _stupid_ , I decided I couldn’t just… Spend the night at Hammerhead. Like a normal person. It’s Cor’s car, yeah? It’s got the high light bulbs to keep daemons away. It’ll be fine.”

“Oh no,” said Noct, staring in horror. He was not the only one.

Prompto went on, regardless.

“I figure. Fuck it, I’ll just. Gas it on the straight lanes and hit the checkpoint just after nine. It’ll be  _fine_.”

“I’m going out on a limb,” Ignis said, watching somewhat worriedly as Prompto popped open another can. “And guess it did not go well.”

“Spoilers, it doesn’t go well at all,” Prompto laughed. “It wasn’t daemons, though. The bulbs and all. It was fine. But I’m doing ninety on a flat stretch and this fucking anak calf just. Whooshes in front of me. Out of fucking nowhere.”

Gladio started cackling again. Luna gasped. Noct was staring.

“It bounced right off the hood and just. Rolled over the roof and fell into the asphalt behind me. Just. Matter of seconds.”

“Oh my  _god_ , Prompto,” Luna whispered.

“What did you  _do_?” Ignis demanded.

“What any sensible seventeen year old would do upon running over a cute baby murder beast,” Prompto snorted, and yep. That was another soda can empty. Gladio was wheezing now. “I called my boyfriend.”

“Hi,” Gladio snorted, gasping, and waving awkwardly.

Prompto gave him a dead-eyed look so reminiscent of Cor it was uncanny.

“So I said, Gladio, I ran over a baby anak, what do I do?” He said, full of emotion, eyes gleaming with tears. He glared at Gladio, who’d lost it again. “And  _this fucking asshole_ , he’s like.”

“Is it alive?” Gladio asked, chortling.

“So I say, yeah, I think so. I can hear it screaming,” Prompto said, holding his face in his hands. “And remember it’s like. Eight going on nine. Sun is gone, daemons groaning in the distance and only my suddenly very puny looking lights keeping them at bay. But you can  _hear_ the fucking giants groaning in the distance.” He glowered at Gladio. “And he says…”

“You gotta run it over,” Gladio said, right on queue, sobering up, just enough to deliver the line and bask in the horrified looks all around, before he started cackling again.

“Shut the fuck up, oh my god,” Prompto whined, face in his hands. “I’m like…  _ **what**_. And this jackass is like. No really. You  _gotta_ kill it. You  _gotta_ run it over.”

“It’s only humane!” Gladio protested, between guffaws. “Daemons were gonna kill it otherwise. It’d be cruel to leave it there.” 

“So,” Prompto goes on, pointedly ignoring him and instead staring at yet another empty can of soda. “Like a fucking  _idiot_. I turn around. And this is Cor’s car, remember. It’s. It’s not very tall. Or fancy. So I gotta line up properly for it. So I’m there, back and forth. Trying to aim it right. Can’t get out of the car, 'cause daemons all over, too. So. I back away.” Prompto swallowed hard. “And then I floor it.”

“Oh  _no_.”

“And right as I am about to hit it, I swear to Ramuh, the fucker springs back up bleating up a storm and runs away.”

Gladio dissolved into cackling again.

“And I’m like. Oh thank fuck. Thank… and then right that second, another baby anak comes running by, and I hit it dead on and it bounces off into the side of the road never to be seen again.”

Luna chortled a little and looked mortified about it. Noct was staring at Prompto while Ignis was burying his face against Gladio’s side to hide the way he was laughing under his breath.

“Prompto?” Noctis said, rather solemnly. “If you ever run me over? Please don’t come back for me. Leave me there. I’ll… I’ll make it somehow.”

“Fuck you,” Prompto replied with a whimper. “All I remember is driving back at a steady sixty, and all I could think of was… I’m never driving ever again. Which. Yeah. Never fucking driven ever again.  _Fuck_ that.” He swung back the rest of his soda. “And that’s the story of why you can’t fucking pay me to sit behind the wheel of anything larger than my bike.”


	172. year v | Cor taking care of Nyx after the whole "war ended" bit

* * *

_year v | Cor taking care of Nyx after the whole "war ended" bit_

* * *

 

“You should be at work,” Nyx muttered, pressing the words against the soft fabric of Cor’s shirt.

Cor’s shirts were ridiculously soft and well-worn, and Nyx almost didn’t hold it against him, that they were either covered in utterly inappropriate memes or that he insisted on wearing multiple layers pretty much always. The fact Cor had a hand gently rubbing up and down along his spine wasn’t making him any more willing to complain, either.

“No,” Cor said, with dead certainty that made something bubble inside Nyx gut, something shapeless and soft, which then burst like a ripe boil and flooded him with warmth.

“We can’t just spend the entire day lying on the couch and doing nothing,” Nyx said, when he recovered enough he felt like he could breathe again. “The war just ended. Maybe. There’s just-”

“Yes,” Cor said, placid and serene, and Nyx thought of the sea crashing into the coast with inexorable, unhurried precision, “we can.”

Nyx stared up at Cor and found his face as deadpan as always, utterly unconcerned by anything. His hand was still drumming along his spine, an almost unconscious, senseless rhythm that nonetheless wore down the wariness in Nyx’s soul and dulled the edge of panic he’d been riding on for the past few weeks.

Then Cor’s phone rang, vibrating noisily on the low table next to the couch. Nyx stared at Cor, waiting for him to reach out and grab it, considering the last time his phone had rang, they’d been in the middle of some very frantic sex, and Cor had answered it. But instead Cor pointedly stared back at him, and only stopped rubbing his back to grab Nyx’s own arm and tug it away from the phone.

“I have voicemail for a reason,” Cor said, a hint of humor to the tilt of his mouth, almost but not quite a smirk.

“I will get used to this,” Nyx threatened, almost hysterical, because they’d had sex and showered and talked and it was high time he got up and kept going, instead of just basking on the fact Cor was solid and warm beneath his hands. “Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my days in this couch, if you don’t get up now.”

Cor held his gaze and turned, tugging him along until he was tucked between the backrest and the bulk of Cor’s frame, trapped in place by their tangled legs and the simple fact he didn’t want to move at all.

“Good,” Cor said, with that bland finality of his, like he could not care less about the consequences of letting Nyx become one with the safety and warmth of the couch.

Nyx didn’t whimper, but it was a near thing.


	173. year iv | the cactuar onesie

* * *

_year iv | the cactuar onesie_

* * *

 

“See, on the one hand, I hate you,” Nyx said, mouth twisting into a restrained smile, watching Cor bundle up a sleepy Prompto up in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You found him a cactuar onesie.”

“Mhm,” Cor replied, settling Prompto’s weight comfortably so the boy could drool a spot on his shoulder to his heart’s content.

“Like, you went into the internet and you looked for it and when you found it, you actually bought it,” Nyx went on, trailing after Cor as he began walking in the general direction of the apartment. “You paid actual, legit money for that monstrosity, and then you  _gave_ it to him.”

“He likes cactuars,” Cor replied tonelessly, looking at Nyx over the crown of Prompto’s head, like Prompto’s obsession with the green terrors had just randomly sprouted into being without any input on his part.

“On the other hand,” Nyx went on, deciding to be the bigger man and ignore Cor’s quiet attempts to troll the shit out of him, “I think I actually filled up my phone today. You’re no longer my wallpaper or my lockscreen, by the way.”

“Woe,” Cor deadpanned, but didn’t pull away when Nyx fell into step with him and sort of not really casually grabbed his hand. “I don’t know I can recover from that.”

“Ass,” Nyx groused loudly, but refused to let go of Cor’s hand.


	174. year xx | Aranea and Prompto bonding

* * *

_year xx | Aranea and Prompto bonding_

* * *

 

“So what’s up?” Prompto asks, as they sit on the roof of Hammerhead, bowl of chilli in their hands and drinks - beer for her, soda for him - at their side. “What do you need saboteaur’d?”

“Nothing,” Aranea confesses with the air of someone not confessing anything in the first place. “You looked twitchy, figured you could use the time off.”

Prompto thinks of Pitioss and Steyliff and Costlemark. He takes a very purposeful spoonful of chilli and shoves it into his mouth, so he’ll have a valid reason to shudder.

“Cid says there’ve been sights of MTs skulking around Formouth,” Aranea goes on, after the prerequisite smug smirk since Prompto didn’t deny her careful assessment of the situation.

Prompto scowls.

“What, again?” He pouts. “But I already… augh.  _MTs_ , I swear. They’re worse than rats.”

“Mhm,” Aranea grins, right back. “You left foundations standing, so it’s on you they had somewhere to come back to.”

“Bloody Ravus Nox Fleuret was barking at my heels,” Prompto grouses bitterly, though he can hear the ghost of Monica’s lecturing even as he speaks. Aranea is right, it’s on him, for being sloppy. “Fine, let’s go to Formouth.”

Fourteen hours later, they sit on the flaming wreck that remains of the base’s walls and share a smoke as they watch the sun slowly crawl back over the horizon.

“…alright, fine, you were right,” Prompto sighs, and doesn’t protest when she throws an arm over his shoulders and tugs him over into a side hug, “I needed that.”

Aranea gives him an insufferably smug smirk, but says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

It’s fine.


	175. year xx | Nyx & Cor vs The Angelus, Round 1 (Nyx's POV)

* * *

_year xx | Nyx & Cor vs The Angelus, Round 1 (Nyx's POV)_

* * *

 

“Do you trust me?” Cor asked, voice eerily quiet against the backdrop of machine gun fire and the chirr of death gearing up for a second strike.

Nyx took a moment to spit out the blood clogging up behind his teeth, fingers digging into asphalt and finding no give.

“Always,” he snarled, watching the Angelus tower above them, monstrous, bottomless pool of fuckery that it was, preparing to finish them off.

“Don’t warp,” Cor told him, and then slammed into him, making every broken, wounded bit of Nyx light up in pain, and mercifully made it so he didn’t have enough piece of mind to react to the fact they were going over the edge of bridge and into the river below.

Nyx passed out when they hit the water, the shock of the cold and the pain from the impact - it hurt like being hurled into concrete - reaching a point where his brain threw its metaphorical hands up in the air and gave up.

“You shouldn’t be here at all,” he heard a voice, somewhere in between waking and going under again, thunderous and deep, but his face was tucked against Cor’s throat and he couldn’t spare enough energy to move and actually try to see. “I’ve made myself-”

“Do you  _want_ to lose the other fucking arm?” Cor snarled, vicious and loud in a way Cor wasn’t, just flat out  _wasn’t_ , but when Nyx tried to shift and see what the shit had gotten into him, he jostled his wounds and the pain summarily kicked him right back into unconsciousness.

The next time Nyx woke up, he was propped up against Cor’s side, with Cor’s hand pressing hard against the remains of the largest hole in his gut, pale green sparks making skin tingle as they slowly coaxed it to close.

“That’s new,” Nyx whispered, and watched in fascination as Cor’s concentration broke and the magic glow crumbled on the spot.

Nyx had seen that happen maybe three million times, in the past twenty years, watching rookies work their way through getting the hang of magic in the Kingsglaive.

“No,” Cor said, and shifted him around so he could stare down at Nyx’s face, “it’s not. I’m just shit at it.”

“Dunno about that,” Nyx replied, trying very hard to keep his voice even, considering he’d never… he’d never actually seen Cor scared before. Not the sort that made him pale and left his hands trembling just a bit. “I feel okay.” Cor pulled him closer, buried his face into his chest and let out a shuddering breath that made Nyx wonder exactly how badly that last leg of the battle had really gone. He didn’t remember. He found himself staring at his surroundings instead, to ignore the throb of pain under his ribs and the million other aches bubbling inside his skin. “Where are we?”

Because… because it didn’t really look like Duscae, what with the crystal growths and the eerie blue lights and the chill and the distant roar of water and-

Oh, Nyx thought, brain finally painting a picture clear enough to realize he was standing - lying, really, but technicalities - in the heart of Taelpar Crag.

_Shit._


	176. year xx | Nyx & Cor vs The Angelus, Round 1 (Cor's POV)

* * *

_year xx | Nyx & Cor vs The Angelus, Round 1 (Cor's POV)_

* * *

 

Cor was not made to use magic.

When Aulea dug out ancient records and pitched her ludicrous idea to Regis, that he could share his magic, all of it, not just the access to the armiger, Cor had been a natural test subject. He’d volunteered, even, considering Aulea was willing to be first.

He’d held Regis hand and opened himself to it and felt something settle in his bones, layered on top of Mors’ memory there, but nothing much had happened. He could conjure sparks, if he thought hard enough to get a migraine. Aulea, never one to accept defeat, had been test subject two. Cor had stood by and watch her hold her husband’s hand and then let out a stream of very colorful curses when she then proceeded to destroy the room on her first try.

Aulea, it was clear, was made to use magic, whereas Cor was not.

In the very early days of what would end up becoming the Kingsglaive, it became clear that Aulea belonged to a very small minority. Monica and Lyra, the only two members of the Crownsguard that Cor trusted enough to suggest be given unfettered access to the King’s magic, had shown his exact same disposition for it.

Then they had tried Titus, because Aulea liked him well enough to trust him, and Titus had shown Aulea’s proclivity for it. In retrospect, Cor wondered, of course, bitter and vicious and full of hate, if Titus had been good at it, because he already had magic of a sort buried under his skin. Magitek, after all, was a lot more like Lucian magic than most were willing to admit, without being prosecuted for treason.

Cor couldn’t change the past, no matter how angry it made him: Titus had magic and he didn’t, and so Titus had been given the task to find and recruit those who could share that magic. While Cor settled in to look after the Crownsguard and defend, rather than strike back.

Titus was dead, now, and Cor wasn’t, because Titus was a traitor, and Cor wasn’t.

Aulea was dead, too, and Cor wasn’t, because Aulea made plans and designs for the future, and Cor didn’t.

Because Cor didn’t need magic, to be monstrous. He didn’t need magic to be Immortal.

He didn’t  _need_ magic.

Until now.

He could tell, the moment the current sucked them into the Crag. He could tell. It was what he’d meant to do, and he still dreaded having to do it. He held Nyx close, curled around him as if to spare him the fury of the river, and when they washed out into the caves, air stale and thick with magic, Cor pulled Nyx closer still.

He was not made to use magic, it just wasn’t in his nature.

But the alternative was inconceivable, so he reached in deep, and tried.


	177. year vi | Cor and Nyx, on pet names

* * *

_year vi | Cor and Nyx, on pet names_

* * *

 

“You,” Nyx said, looming threateningly over Cor, “are the greatest  _asshole_ in recorded history.”

Cor looked up at him, lying on the couch as long as he was, head propped up in one hand and remote in the other.

“Absolutely,” he replied, muting the TV and dropping the remote on the carpet so he could lay on his back and arch his eyebrows tauntingly at Nyx.

Nyx didn’t disappoint, and instead hooked a leg on Cor’s hip and move to sit on his lap, wriggling his fingers in a vague strangling motion.

“Utter fucking  _ass_ ,” Nyx insisted, reaching down to tug Cor up, head cradled in his hands, so he could kiss him properly. “The absolute, uncontested  _worst_.”

“I see you liked your present,” Cor teased, catching Nyx’s lower lip with his fangs, just the way he knew made Nyx’s face flush on reflex.

“Seventeen pages,” Nyx despaired, forehead pressed against Cor’s. “ _Seventeen_. You fucking asshole.”

“Did Regis read them to you?” Cor asked, eyebrows arched in amusement as Nyx slowly folded himself into a little ball, pressed tight against his lap.

“He read them to the  _Council_ ,” Nyx whimpered, and bit Cor’s collar bone when he chuckled. “Don’t laugh, you ass, he read all seventeen of them!”

“Monica did tell me I needed to work on being more explicit in my end of year reviews,” Cor pointed out, utterly, endlessly smug and Nyx would be mad at him for it, if not for the fact he was still trying to figure out how he felt about it. “She said I was too succinct.”

“Seventeen pages!” Nyx insisted, hysterical laughter bubbling under his sternum. “You can’t just write seventeen pages of ridiculous praise just because you like the taste of my dick. You  _ass_.”

“Given that I outrank you, yes, I could,” Cor deadpanned, and it was the deadpan, sharp and precise that made Nyx want to hide under his jacket. “But it’s irrelevant, given that I didn’t. You earned that.”

“Nobody earns seventeen pages worth of… of  _that_ ,” Nyx whispered, and resisted only a little when Cor nudged him up to meet his eyes. “I mean, not without sex involved. And I’m really happy about the sex involved, don’t get me wrong, but you  _asshole_ , you-”

“Provided my humble field assessment on the current standing and character of the Commander of the Kingsglaive,” Cor deadpanned, and tilted his head minutely to the side, as if to better appreciate the precise moment Nyx’s face flushed scarlet. “Made extra sure to not mention your dick, either.”

“Shut up!” Nyx buried his face against Cor’s throat. “ _Ass_.”

It would be a lot more effective, he knew, if Cor weren’t already savvy on the fact he meant to say  _I love you_ , every time he called him names.

The fucking asshole.


	178. year xxvi | Cor dreams of Aulea, and her thoughts about his family

* * *

_year xxvi | Cor dreams of Aulea, and her thoughts about his family_

* * *

 

“They’re very cute,” Aulea says, peering at the crib where the twins are snoring away their cares. In about two hours, Cor knows, the air siren screaming will start. But until then, peace and quiet and angelic faces that deceive all unwary fools who don’t know any better. “They remind me of Noct. Do you remember Noct, Cor? When he was that age?”

Cor watches her, sitting on the armchair by the window, keeping watch. There was a power failure, two weeks back, nothing more than twenty minutes, but there were red giants crawling out of the ground before anyone knew what was going on. The lights are bright and strong, both in the room and outside the house, because the Insomnian power grid is the single most precious resource in this world of dimming daylight. So now there’s always watching, while the children sleep. Sometimes Prompto, sometimes Aranea, sometimes Nyx. Sometimes Ravus, when he’s hiding from the crown he never wanted to borrow in the first place.

Cor likes watch duty. He takes it as much as he can. He likes the twins, conniving, deceitful little menances they are. Aranea likes to gripe about it, eyes rolling with a flourish, but in this one thing, she lets him do as he will.

“I do,” he says, watching Aulea brush her fingers against the small tufts of soft hair dusted over their heads. “He was quieter.”

“He takes after his father,” Aulea points out, lips twisted into a wry smile. “He always has.” And then, because she can, she grins. “Grandfatherhood suits you.”

“Grandfatherhood is not a word,” Cor deadpans back, unmoved by her eyes glinting in amusement. “But thank you.”

“Family suits you,” Aulea insists, pensive, and her gown shifts, not the solemn black dress they buried her with, but the awkward collection of improvised clothes she wore on their road trip. “I’m glad you listened to me,” she says, walking around the crib, which isn’t there anymore, to come sit next to him on the edge of the haven nested so far deep into the rocky edges of Ravatogh, it’s not on any map. “Finally.”

“I’ve never once listened to you and you know it,” Cor retorts, feeling his lip spit from the heat and the rockwall he got slammed into, two fights before they managed to reach the haven. “You’re dead, Lea.”

“Yes,” Aulea sighs, eyes fixed on Pitioss’ entrance, half hidden under the rockwall. “You’ve never forgiven me for that.”

“I’m not a very forgiving creature,” Cor confesses and follows along the memory, giving into temptation to lean in and press his ear against the swell of her belly, listening for the echoes of her son’s heartbeat. Her fingers find his hair, at the nape, and he remembers how much he will want to hate the boy in her womb, once he understands what it is she’s using him to accomplish, but he remembers further how much that doesn’t happen. “For what it’s worth, I get it now.”

“You’re a father, now, of course you do,” Aulea sighs. “Tell me about your family.”

“You’re dead, Lea,” Cor whispers, shrinking until he’s as small as he feels, and they’re in a haven in Duscae, instead, his knees scabbed over and her fingers plucking the hair out of his scalp, one at the time, to punish him for sneaking out and killing ronin for sport. “You already know.”

“I always knew you loved me and I still liked listening to you say it,” she says, because she’s vicious and brutal and all around terrible, just like him. “Tell me about your family, Cor.”

What choice he has, but to comply? When has he had a choice, when it comes to her?

He wakes up with tears in his throat and her name on his tongue, as Nyx settles into the bed, crawling into place against his side.

“Shh, go back to sleep.”

In the morning, he decides, he’ll take flowers to her grave.


	179. year xviii | Prompto and Birthdays

* * *

_year xviii | Prompto and Birthdays_

* * *

 

Prompto learned, eventually, that his notion of what made a good birthday was not, in fact, what the majority of Insomnia’s population thought it was.

Prompto didn’t get presents, on his birthday. 

(Well, he did, sort of. Noct refused to acknowledge the fact birthday presents were not a thing, among Galahdians, and Prompto didn’t know how to argue that, so he just grinned and said thank you and took the gesture for what it was meant for. Ignis insisted it was good etiquette, and Prompto was too smart to argue that point, and Gladio just flat out never remembered he wasn’t supposed to until after Prompto laughed and reminded him gently he really didn’t have to.)

And cake was sort of not really required.

(Cor would always get him sugar for his birthday, in unspeakable amounts, but the vehicle for the induced diabetic coma didn’t always have to be cake. After all, there was cheesecake and crepes and that one time they made smores with Cor’s lighter because the power died and it was five in the morning, improvisation was key.)

No one really sang him anything.

(Harit sang him happy birthday, every year, but he had to… ambush him with it. It was a stealth happy birthday. It was a running gag so long they couldn’t remember when it started but Prompto always looked forward to whatever ridiculous escalation he was going to get this year.)

Prompto got  _stories,_ instead _._

Which were sort of like presents, if you’re good at stretching the meaning of words - and he was, kinda, really good at that, to be honest - only better, because stories are  _forever_. And his Dad did a good deal of the story-telling, in his birthdays, voice smooth and pleasant and sort of like a song on its own, punctuated by Cor’s precise deadpans and Nea’s occasional snarking as a backdrop. And even if it wasn’t cake, there was food on the table, always, and it sat warm and familiar in his belly, while he folded his arms on the table and soaked in all the things his family insisted he’d done that were eminently worth remembering.

And… and maybe it was different, the way his birthday went, compared to his classmates or his friends. But different was okay, he reckoned, when it was safe and comfy, like drinking cocoa after soaking in a good storm.

He liked different, it kept things interesting.


	180. year -xiii | Cor hates seafood for a reason

* * *

_year -xiii | Cor hates seafood for a reason_

* * *

 

“It’s a crab, Regis,” Cor deadpanned, squinting at the Prince dubiously. “A big crab, maybe. But still a crab. You punt it and you grill it and then you have dinner for about a few days. For yourself and maybe fifty other people. It’s  _fine_.”

Cor knew what he was talking about, of course. Cor used to haunt Caem’s coast before he eventually landed in the service of the King. Cor had killed his share of overgrown crustaceans and eaten dinners made of them. The only reason they usually got bounties so high was because people were really fucking stupid and kept bashing their weapons on the shield-like claws instead of aiming for the sweet spot on their soft, squishy underbellies.

“It’s nearly thirty thousand gil, Cor,” Regis retorted, frowning, because he hated it when Cor treated him like a small, sheltered child, which was always, because Regis was a Prince and an idiot, and Cor was the poor sod in charge of keeping him alive. “No one pays thirty thousand gil for  _crabs_.”

“Folk in Caem do,” Cor insisted, because he knew better, and that was that.

Four hours later, when the karlabos erupted from the coast with a loud, ear-splittingly unpleasant chittering noise, Cor wrinkled his nose the moment he felt the weight of Regis’ eyes on him.

“Still a fucking crab,” Cor insisted, and threw himself at it.

He’d never fought one of those before, no, but how hard could it be? It was just an overgrown  _crab_.


	181. year xxxix | Life Ever After

* * *

_year xxxix | Life Ever After_

* * *

 

“I have been  _betrayed_ ,” Nyx announced, stomping up the steps into the cabin, face flushed and teeth bared. “Backstabbed by those I once trusted!”

Cor and Libertus looked up at him for a moment, and then Cor shrugged and turned back to the five gallon kettle where he usually brewed his beer.

“Anyway, I just doesn’t work,” Cor said, utterly ignoring Nyx’s rather Reasonable and Justified Meltdown in the foyer, “it’s either the height or the seabreeze, but it will not fucking match the note I want.”

“Maybe you’re just shitty at making beer,” Libertus postulated, also entirely ignoring Nyx’s glower, because he was a treacherous scumbag that Nyx was going to disown once he was done making angry clicking noises instead of actual words.

“Maybe your recipe is just shitty,” Cor shot right back, deadpan and unamused. Libertus waited a moment, eyebrow arched. “Except it’s really not. This will legitimately drive me crazy, Lib.”

“You  _married_ my brother,” Libertus pointed out, grinning, “three separate fucking times. You were crazy to begin with and you can’t scapegoat my beer for that.”

“I can try,” Cor muttered grumpily, even as Libertus went in to poke at the water with a ladle. Nyx went to press against Cor side and peer at Libertus’ black fuckery when it came to brewing and only hissed low in his throat when Cor dropped a kiss on his forehead and murmured: “Congratulations on your win, Elder Ulric.”

“Aye,” Libertus agreed, grinning and pointedly not looking at them.

“I fucking hate you both.”


	182. year xviii | the true victim of the pinup calendar

* * *

_year xviii | the true victim of the pinup calendar_

* * *

 

At eighteen, Prompto’s dream of being a professional photographer died spectacularly like a dumpster on fire.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have talent for it – he did, and it wasn’t vanity to know it, he had a good eye for light and movement and following his gut to get the right shot, and the six hundred thousand people following his Instagram agreed.

It was just that spending an entire day in a room with a parade of the best of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive – which happened to include his entire family – herding them like wet cats into somehow composing pictures that were perfectly straddling the line of tasteful and tantalizing, had not only robbed him of his dreams, but his hopes for the future and quite possibly his soul.

It had seemed like an easy thing to do, at the start. He hadn’t thought much of it, when Sonitus asked him if he wanted to take over the gig. He had the required clearance, which that alone would just eat at the profits for the calendar quite a bit, to get someone to jump through the required hoops. He had most of the equipment already. He knew most of the people involved. Sure, there was the whole taking pictures of naked people bit, but Prompto figured he was a mature, seasoned photographer and nudity didn’t have to be awkward or sexual or anything.

He’d felt fairly confident he could handle it.

He’d been an utter fool.

There was his parents, of course, flirting shamelessly as always. There was Aranea and Luche, needling each other and then falling on Tredd and tormenting him relentlessly, because apparently Tredd just didn’t know how to deal with bare skin. There was Crowe drawing lines with a marker on Monica’s back, because Monica had freckles all over and Crowe had no sense of self-preservation. There were people who were awkward, people who didn’t care, people who relished on being naked.

And honestly?

Honestly.

Prompto had seven hundred and thirty eight pictures to go through, at the end of the day, and a firm desire to never see another human being naked ever again.


	183. year xviii. the other thing that came out from that pinup calendar

* * *

_year xviii. the other thing that came out from that pinup calendar_

* * *

 

It’s not the first time Tredd wakes up hungover and in pain on the floor of Luche’s apartment. It sort of comes with the territory of being Luche’s friend – his best friend, even, sometimes, though Tredd isn’t the sort of stupid feelsy guy to fixate on that kind of distinction – and the fact Luche hovers and has kittens over everything Tredd does. Tredd likes to sporadically – very sporadically – point out Luche fusses about him the same way the Commander does, if only because Luche’s face pinches over like he bit on a lemon and he’s frothing mad about it for weeks.

It is, however, the first time he wakes up on the floor of Luche’s bedroom. He can tell because there’s carpet under his cheek and a bed two feet over. A bed, matter of fact, currently occupied.

It’s the first time he wakes up on the floor of Luche’s bedroom, to the sound of Luche fucking Aranea. Though when he raises his head to get a good enough look, it’s more like she’s fucking him, really, pinning his wrists at each side of his head, hips rolling in short, sharp cycles and teeth clamp shut along the tendon of Luche’s throat.

Tredd already knew they were fucking, of course. This isn’t a grand revelation, or anything. Everyone knows Luche and Aranea are friends, and sometimes more, and sometimes less. The fact Luche is still alive is a point of pride of his, really, considering he’s been fucking Aranea since she was more the Commander’s daughter than just another one of them. These days, her relationship with the boss is just… a side note attached to her name, and hardly the first one any one of them thinks of, when thinking of her. Aranea is a vicious, feral bitch who makes Crowe seem sane and sensible when it comes to using magic. She’s loud and reckless and Tredd used to be terrified of her with the nebulous certainty he’s terrified of deep, running water that stinks of sulfur, but now he’s not quite sure.

The moment hangs over them, Tredd’s breathing loud and paradoxically stuck in the back of his throat, and then she lets go of Luche’s wrists, leaning back, and catches Tredd’s eye out of the corner of his own.

He doesn’t mean to stare. He’s been meaning not to stare for the past who knows how many hours, working on that stupid, stupid idea of Sonitus – all of Sonitus’ ideas are bad, and this is coming from Tredd, which says a lot – because no matter how much the stupid calendar makes, it’ll never be enough to make up for the hours Tredd will spend trying to pretend he’s never seen so much skin before. He doesn’t mean to stare, but there’s a bruise on the inner swell of her left breast and it takes him a moment to realize it’s the shadow of teeth – Luche’s teeth – painted dark red on it. He’s staring at her, and he knows it, and he can’t stop, any more than he can stop staring at Luche, either. He shouldn’t, really. She’s hot and he’s known it for ages, a vague, unimportant thing he’s never considered in full, mostly because Luche’s his friend, maybe the only friend he’s ever had, and Tredd’s not that kind of dick. But she’s hot and he knows it and maybe it’s not that weird, him staring at her, because she’s there, skin flushed and taunt and he’s never wanted to lick something more than he does the sweat off her pores.

But Luche.

Luche’s a man. Very solidly a man, sprawled back on the bed, every hard line of him on display and not a single stray shadow Tredd could blame to be playing tricks on his head. He’s never wanted a man, before. It’s not… he likes women, in theory and in practice, and years in the barracks and communal showers have done absolutely nothing to change that. Tredd’s still staring, though. Because it’s Luche, and he knows those scars on display, and there’s a terrifying urge in him, now, to reach out and bite on them too.

“Nea,” Luche snarls, pale eyes gone dark, and Tredd makes a sound just before Aranea is reaching out to grab his face and pull him up and up and.

The sound Luche makes, when Aranea kisses Tredd – teeth on his lips and he’s got a hand clutching at the bed and the other reaching for her – and Tredd remembers, between one second and the next, that Luche’s inside her. Just.

“Yeah?” She asks, breath on his mouth, green eyes three degrees lighter than Tredd’s own, and the bed dipping under their weight, because Luche’s sitting up and she moans when he does.

“Yeah,” Tredd whispers, despairing, melting when her hands dig at his clothes, but he can’t really think about it because Luche has fingers digging into his hair, pulling at him.

Spines, Tredd thinks, stomach rolling in his gut, should not bend the way his does, sprawled between them, but then Luche’s kissing him and it’s. It’s.

Yeah.

Broad hands on his face, nails digging into skin and nothing about it is soft or tender and he likes it that way. He likes it.

Shit.

 


	184. year xv. tredd really does try

* * *

_year xv. tredd really does try_

* * *

 

He didn’t mean to.

He never meant to, that’s the thing. Things like this, just sort of happened to him. He knew what he had to do, and he set out to do it, and he meant to do it right, because he knew he could, and then someone would make a snide comment or look at him funny or just straight up got in his face about things and. Well. He knew he should hold himself above it. He knew it was better to ignore it. Everyone else around him seemed to be able to do it. Everyone else seemed to know how to play the game.

He knew how to play the game, even. It was just.

Dull roar in his veins and white noise in his head and his body moved before his brain could crawl out from the swamp of fury that always followed people being shit at him.

“Hello, Tredd,” Monica sighed, looking up from her desk when they shoved him through the door.

Tredd liked her, mostly. He was keenly aware he would be in much deeper shit, if she weren’t the one to deal with him every time he got arrested for socking an asshole in the face. She could be a lot worse to him, if she wanted to, and he was keenly aware he didn’t have much of a leg to stand on. Frankly, the only reason he was standing there instead of rotting somewhere in a cell was because the Commander always insisted on sticking up for him, no matter what stupid thing Tredd did.

It made Tredd feel like shit every time he found himself in front of Monica’s desk, offering her his hands so she could uncuff them. The Commander would be disappointed – not angry, it would be better if he were, but he wasn’t, he just sighed and asked Tredd to try better, and Tredd always did, he did, it just never paid off.

“I’m sorry,” Tredd said, not looking at her in the eyes, because he knew how hollow it rang, worn down by repetition even though he really did mean it, every tme.

“I know,” Monica said, which was the worst part of it, and nudged the phone in his direction.

Tredd refused to look at her while he dialed.

“What did you _do_ ,” the Commander hissed at him, the moment he picked up the phone, which wasn’t really reassuring and made Tredd want to sink into the depths of his boots.

“I… uh. I got into a fight,” Tredd muttered, playing with the cord of the phone, winding it around his fingers. “Just… I know. I know! I just. They were talking shit. And I just.”

“…put Monica on the phone,” the Commander said after a moment, and Tredd offered the mouthpiece back to her without a word.

He studied the view from the window, rather than listen to the conversation. He already knew what they were going to say, anyway, and that only made it worse. It sat boiling and angry in his gut and he hated that feeling like he’d never hated anything else before. Monica gave him a slip of paper to report for civic duty in the morning, and he knew he was going to spend his day off cleaning trash off the side of the highway. He spent most of his days off doing that. Or mowing the lawns around the Citadel gardens. At least they’d stopped sending him to do soup kitchen work, by now. He only ended up picking more fights when he was there.

Tredd made his way back to the barracks and then remembered, as he closed the door behind him, that he’d already scheduled something for the next morning.

“ _What now?_ ” The Commander demanded, and Tredd shrunk against the door, wincing at his phone.

“I have finals tomorrow,” he said, “for… for calculus and physics. I’ll do the time, I swear!” He added hastily, because the last thing he needed was the Commander thinking that he was trying to weasel out of his punishment. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it double, I promise! I just… not tomorrow.” He swallowed hard. “…please.”

“Fine,” the Commander said, and he sighed, but it was his usual sigh, and Tredd tried to believe him, when he said he didn’t think Tredd caused trouble for the sake of it. He would be justified in thinking it, but Tredd really didn’t mean it. “But I’ll take my pound of flesh for this.”

“Take two, sir,” Tredd said, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” the Commander replied, and he didn’t sound mad, even though Tredd knew he’d deserve it. He made everyone mad, always. “Now go hit the sack. I’ll be pissed if after all this, you end up failing because you overslept.”

“Yes, sir!” Tredd replied, relieved, and then hung up and went to do exactly that.

It was supposed to get easier, that’s what the Commander said. It was supposed to be better. He just had to try.

Just a little bit more.


	185. year -xlii. mors and lucius, from lady amicitia's pov

* * *

 

_year -xlii. mors and lucius, from lady amicitia's pov_

* * *

 

Lucius Amicitia had not been raised to be Shield of the King.

He’d been the fifth of five brothers, after all. He didn’t look the part, either. His brothers, more so the eldest and the second eldest, were the sort of big, imposing men bred for war and combat, suitable to protect a King inheriting a kingdom besieged by war on all fronts. Quiet, mouse-like Lucius instead grew up preparing to hold some clerical office in the Citadel, something quiet and not very important so that everyone could go on pretending he didn’t exist.

It would have been fine, Eleonor reckons, if the King set to choose a Shield had been any other but Mors.

Mors was unsettling and unpredictable and endlessly stubborn when it came to getting his way. He had reckless disregard for tradition and honor and law, and very few friends in court when his father collapsed one chilly autumn morning and got sent to a hospital bed he would never recover from. Any other King, Eleonor was sure, would have chosen the eldest Amicitia to become his Shield. Mors was fifteen years old, it only made sense to choose someone much older than him. Sensible. Well-liked and well-respected. Someone suitable to serve as his regent at least until the King came of age and could actually wield power of his own.

Mors chose Lucius, instead.

Mors chose Lucius even when Lucius pointed out he wasn’t even an option.

Eleonor had been betrothed to Mors’ Shield since she was born and having no notion which of the five Amicitia siblings would be her husband, she had endeavored to know them all. Even Lucius. It paid off, somewhat. She did not go to her wedding night with a stranger, though she knew exactly what she was marrying: a quiet, bookish clerk with no greater aspirations than enough silence to contemplate his own thoughts.

She expected him to die before the first year was through, what with Mors discarding tradition and rejecting any notion of regency. He emancipated himself, scant days after the coronation, and went on to be exactly the kind of tyrant they all expected him to be: willful and reckless and determined to do things his way. Lucius surprised her, not just by not dying, but by becoming the only sensible censure the young King would tolerate. And he surprised her again, by the quickly developing sense for politics he grew out of sheer self-preservation, juggling the court and the King and all their grievances with one another, while still somewhat maintaining a semblance of peace.

But no one was more surprising than Mors, in the end, with his ruthless cunning and his insistence to tour the front lines and get to know his soldiers in person. The court despised him, of course, because he had no regard for the standing tradition of bargaining and scheming and playing around words. There was no hope of making the King change his mind, once he spoke it out loud, and so the court was forced to go to his Shield instead, to try and vie for his favor. But the common people, the soldiers filling up the ranks, they adored him. His victories were unexpected and all the more celebrated because of it. But they loved the simple, uncomplicated person he was – and Eleonor knew he wasn’t putting a front, no, he really was that, always – the way he stopped on the dirt towns along some backwater road in Duscae and ate dinner with farmers while asking their thoughts on the war.

Eleonor knew, of course, the day she married Lucius, what sort of man he was.

She didn’t mind it, then. He’d looked at her, not with desire, even though she knew herself beautiful, groomed from birth to be suitable for her title the moment she said _I do_. He’d looked at her with the same manic fear he’d looked at every other aspect of his office, something dangerous and volatile and not at all meant for him. As if he could find someone sensible to listen, everyone would agree a grave misunderstanding had happened, and it would all be rectified.

But there was no room for sensible, not with Mors Lucis Caelum at the head of the disaster that became their lives.

When Mors was twenty-four, he married Lady Amalthea, and Lucius told Eleonor, in secret, hysterical whispers, he’d only done so because Amalthea’s twin sister Auriga was keen to not marry alone. They were both noble, of course, but hardly suitable for a King’s bed. They came from Lestallum, children of wealthy men for whom nobility had come as a consequence of their income, not the other way around. But that was the sort of people the King kept company, and given the whimsical nature of their union, Eleonor was not surprised by the fact Lady Amalthea immediately set up a mansion in Caem, which she shared with her sister, what with her sister’s husband spending most of his time looking after his business in Altissia,  and spent most of her time there, rather than within the royal quarters in the Citadel.

It nagged Eleonor, however, to note the weird camaraderie between the King and the Queen. She didn’t love her husband, of course, and she knew such things were hardly necessary for their duties to be fulfilled, but it highlighted the impersonal nature of their union, when compared to the sight of the Queen sprawled indecently on the King’s lap, poking fun at his character with no regard for propriety.

And – she wasn’t bitter about this, no, but she knew how it looked – Amalthea was pregnant, within the year, while Eleonor could count with one hand the times her husband had bothered to fulfill his obligations in her bed, after nearly a decade of marriage.

The King needed him, Lucius said, in the tones of an excuse long worn thin to the point of mockery. The King needed him, all of him, and Eleonor knew it was his right to need his Shield, that was what Shields were meant to be, after all. But she had rights too, she thought. Needs, too.

Lumen Lucis Caelum was born in late November, though the King was strangely somber, when he thought no one was looking. Melancholic. He went to Caem with his wife, and left Lucius behind, and Eleonor decided, at the end of the six months it took for life to spark in her womb, that there was nothing quite as horrid as being duty personified, in the arms of the one man meant to love her. She knew he didn’t, when she married him. She knew. But she also expected years to wear him down. Wear them both down, really, until they fit against each other and didn’t chafe against each other’s sharp edges. But even as she shared the news, hands folded on her lap and head held high with the pride of a job well done… even as Lucius crumbled inside out with emotion, because he didn’t know how to feel about it, she knew he would never love her. More to the point, she knew she would never love him.

She could be fine with that, she thought. She had a son to dote on, now. To raise and groom into becoming a Shield – and he would be Shield, if nothing else because Eleonor knew he would have no siblings to compete with.

Amalthea, still living mostly in Caem, unconcerned by the war and the court and the weight of the crown on her head, birthed another child, and Mors, in true Mors fashion, had the nerve to name him Regis.

When Lucius' family was massacred in their summer home in Cleigne, Eleonor stood by his side. They didn’t have to love each other, to support one another after all.

They would be fine, she thought, so long as they had shared duty to keep them focused.

But when the Crown Prince died, and the mirror cracked enough for her to peer in, she realized Lucius was not incapable of love. He was simply incapable of loving her. And when Amalthea left with her sister, to live in exile in Altissia, something inside Eleonor hardened for good. Something jagged and blackened, clouding her view of the King.

Because Mors had done this, somehow. Mors had set this in motion.

And he reaped the benefits in his bed, every night her husband stayed in the royal quarters, her own bedside cold and empty.

“A Shield’s duty is to his King, yes,” she told her son, over and over again, “but his heart is his own. His sins are his own.”

Later, much later, after Mors died, Eleonor watched her husband walk out the front door, small and mouse-like, with only a flask of whiskey for company. She had no remorse, when she pronounced him dead within the hour.

He’d been dead to her for years at that point, it was mere formality to give her son closure.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [DW](https://notavodkashot.dreamwidth.org/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/notavodkashot), if you'd like.


End file.
